A Change of Perspective
by oleanderedits
Summary: Edward Nygma tries to find friends in all the wrong places. When his latest attempt goes terribly awry, throwing his life into chaos, he finds a steady hand and rock to cling to in one Oswald Cobblepot. This leads him down a road that will change the face of Gotham forever. - Crossposted from AO3
1. Chapter 1

**9:48pm, January 8; The Iceburg Lounge; Edward Nygma**

Lights pulsed around him, encouraging the growing headache as he searched the crowd for any sign of Flass or the others. The waitress had just set the bill down on the table and was waiting expectantly. He could cover the tab, but he'd covered the tab for the last three outings and his bank account was feeling the strain. At some point it had to stop being his turn to pay.

Unable to spot any of the guys from work with the crowd milling about and waitstaff moving through like the smoke that clung to half the faces and coiled around the room like snakes waiting to squeeze and choke the life from their prey, he smiled sheepishly up at the woman - Lark was it? Or Nightingale? All the waitresses had bird names and were styled to be nearly indistinguishable from each other - and ordered another grasshopper. 'One for the road' slipped out of his lips and she grinned at him and gave a soft laugh like she found him to be some combination of genuinely amusing and adorable. The check was removed and she slid back into the crowd to get his drink from the bar.

Once he could no longer see her, he stood up, fingers rising to press against his eyes, pushing his glasses up and unsettling them. It didn't help the pain starting to throb across the outside of his eye sockets. Between the noise, lights, and sudden stress of being abandoned with the check, there was little relief to be found even if the pressure had managed to help. Giving up on that avenue, he opened his eyes once more and pushed his glasses back up so they'd settle correctly on his nose.

He scanned the room again, hoping to find the others with his slightly better view. But the only one to meet his eyes was the waitress as she turned and held up the glass filled with his sickly green poison of choice. Having made eye contact, he forced himself to smile and then pointed at himself, followed by a quick finger gun toward the back with a mouthed 'bathroom'. It took her a moment, the distance and lighting causing everything to slow down, but she seemed to have gotten the message as she nodded back and then shifted her attention to maneuvering the glass through the crushing waves of people.

It had been a spur of the moment decision. He had no plans to abandon the check, of course, but he really needed to get somewhere quieter if he couldn't find someplace dark. The restroom was about the only spot in a public place one could do that.

His course through the crowd was less fluid than the waitress'. He bumped into someone new with practically every step, apologies spilling from his lips, a chant he kept up until he made it to the back hall. It was less packed there, but a line of people led toward the doors labeled with penguins that probably indicated gender. Which genders he wasn't sure. There were four of them and the only difference between them was the pose and how they carried their umbrellas.

Deciding that this was unacceptable, he muttered a couple of 'excuse me's and headed further down to where the hall split into a T. In one direction was a sign pointing toward backstage and in the other was a cordoned off stair case leading to the VIP loft. It looked closed, but there wasn't a guard posted. With a quick glance back down the hall to make sure no one was paying him any attention, he hopped (carefully unhooked and rehooked behind him) the cordon.

Finally he'd found some success. The upper hall that led to the Loft was lined with doors to currently unused private party rooms and so dark that the only light to lead him on came from downstairs where it leaked upward through the two-way mirrors that acted as the ceiling for the main room. He moved toward that light and leaned on the railing to look down. Everything was shadowed because of the coating, but he had a great view of the floor and, more importantly, he was away from the noise. Barely any leaked through the glass - the rest of the construction was obviously meticulously soundproofed so the cacophony from below didn't disturb those privileged enough to be allowed in the Loft when it was actually in use.

He could see his table. The grasshopper sitting there and the waitress waiting patiently next to the table for him to return so no one would steal it. Or maybe to make sure he didn't duck out on the check. Maybe both. He'd noticed the first time the group had brought him here that the waitstaff was incredibly attentive and there were far more of them than any other bar he'd been invited to. There seemed to be one little bird, as they called themselves, for every three customers. He was certain that ratio wasn't accurate, but the way they mingled and merged with the crowd and could pay such close and personal attention to only one or two tables at a time spoke to the place being over-staffed in a way that was probably meant to invoke a sense of needless opulence. A taste of the sort of life most of the regular crowd below could only dream of and watch on television or picture shows and play at in the few places like this. Islands of extravagance in a sea of the downtrodden.

"You aren't supposed to be here," a voice, soft and cultured and calm and without obvious judgement, broke through his reverie. It came from the bar that sat against the far wall, behind the curve of the U that was the Loft's general layout. When he looked up toward it, he found that the voice belonged to a man with a slight build and hair styled to spike up in a forward crest that invoked the image of a bird of some sort. But with the only light source coming from below, it was difficult to tell more.

"Right," he replied, tone firm for a split second before his composure collapsed and he gripped the railing in a nervous hold. "That is... I was just looking for a place that wasn't so full... of noise, I mean." He laughed nervously, feeling more self-conscious with the man's singular, intense gaze on him than he had with the waitress waiting for her payment.

"Clubs like this aren't usually frequented for their lack," his tongue clicked on the 'ck', emphasizing the word without really stressing it or changing his tone, "of noise, friend."

He gulped and shook his head, "Yes. I suppose that's true. I uh... Sorry. I'll go. I didn't mean to interrupt anything."

"You're not interrupting anything," the voice hmm'd, tone somehow maintaining an odd neutrality that didn't condone or condemn him for being there. "There's nothing to interrupt at the moment."

"You... you're not busy?"

"Oh, I am," the man's head bobbed slowly. "I'm cleaning the glassware. But you being here doesn't interrupt that. It's just..." and now there was a shift, neutrality becoming curious, somehow with a hint of venom waiting to be injected if he didn't like the response he heard, "I'm certain there were signs saying the loft was closed tonight. And security to enforce it. How did you manage to get past them?"

He blinked and looked back the way he came as if a bouncer was going to suddenly appear behind him at the end of the hall. His brows scrunched and he shook his head, "No. Well, I mean, yes. There was a sign. I ignored that." His statement was matter of fact as he looked back at the shadow of the man and pushed his glasses back up his nose. "But there wasn't any security."

"Really? That oversight will have to be corrected." The soft thud of a glass being set down just a little too hard on a wooden was the only indicator the man found the information upsetting. "Thank you, friend, for bringing that to my attention. I'll have to inform the general manager so it can be seen to. I'd offer to compensate you with a free drink, but you're technically trespassing at the moment, so..."

A soft laugh echoed across and it wasn't exactly the kindest sound, but he found it oddly fascinating. He couldn't help but echo it and though he supposed he should feel embarrassment, a feeling of intimacy over a shared secret settled over him instead.

"Yes. That's true," he ducked his head, smile spreading and headache forgotten. He patted the rail once, twice, then jerked his head toward the hall. "I'll see myself out."

There was no answer to follow him down as he hurried back the way he'd come.

Thrush - he was certain it was Thrush, or maybe it was Finch? He hadn't been paying attention when she'd introduced herself, distracted by Dougherty's poor but genuine attempt at a riddle - was still waiting for him when he wadded across the room. He had his hand in his pocket for his wallet already and pulled out his credit card for her. He handed it over with an apology for making her wait, and a thanks for the last grasshopper. She told him it was no problem and waved his apology away, saying she'd be right back.

He was left alone, a bubble of personal space created by the small table that gave him just enough space to breathe and attempt to relax as he enjoyed his drink. He'd pretty much confirmed that the others had already left the building while he was standing upstairs. He already knew what the bill was going to be when she brought it back and gave him is card. Gratuity had been included automatically. It was going to make the next week a bit tighter than he liked, but he had some money in savings and could dip into that until the guys paid him back.

..If they paid him back. He wasn't really sure how the whole taking turns on the tab thing worked with the five of them. Now six with him included. He hadn't learned the rotation yet, but it had managed to be his turn each time he'd gone out with them. He knew he'd missed a few of the outings, so logically someone else had to get the check those other times, but he didn't have all the numbers yet to calculate which outings to partake in that would let him enjoy a night with the guys without his wallet getting lighter by the glass.

Since he was alone, he took his time with his last drink, eyes drifting upward to the mirrored ceiling. It was far enough up and paneled in a jagged layering effect that made it look like an Iceburg cresting just above the ocean's waves from above, that he couldn't quite catch his own reflection in it. That was okay though. He didn't really want to look at himself at the moment.

He imagined himself as one of the many inconsequential penguins swimming under the ice while the emperor, the only Penguin that mattered, stood on top of the burg above him, looking down and watching. His crested hair falling forward over his forehead and his piercing gaze able to see everything.

How funny was it that he'd gone looking for the dark and found a King instead?

He'd been much nicer than any of the reports and written accounts about him had indicated he would be. Edward hadn't even been afraid.

How thrilling.


	2. Chapter 2

**9:22pm, January 11; The Iceburg Lounge; Edward Nygma**

Three days later and he was back at the Lounge. This time he was alone.

He hadn't been able to keep the short encounter of out of his head. It had eaten away at his brain the whole night and into the next day to the point that he gave up on trying to focus on work and instead ducked into the records annex and trolled the files for any mention of the Penguin he could find. There was an entire cabinet dedicated to the crime lord in the main records room, but he didn't have access to that unless he was actively working on a case that necessitated he be in there. All files in that room were strictly controlled as they represented active and current investigations as well as sensitive subjects. The annex was a little more lax. General public still couldn't be in there and all files had to stay in the precinct, but anyone with a security badge could have access.

Kristen had been there when he arrived and asked what he was looking for. He wasn't exactly comfortable with lying to her, so he'd skirted the truth and said any files about Penguin's known current and former associates. There were plenty of cases that involved the man's underlings and hirelings, so it was technically plausible that he was gathering information about one of them being potentially involved with something he was working on. it wouldn't stand up to intense scrutiny or further questioning, but fortunately Ms. Kringle hadn't cared to dig any deeper. She just reminded him to sign out on any files he took back to his office so she could account for them and pointed him toward two cabinets in particular. After about a half hour of him rooting through and browsing the files, she'd gotten up to take care of something elsewhere.

Her filing system grated on his nerves, but it had a basic logic to it, so he was able to find a few leads that were potentially enlightening. Files on some recently deceased middle and upper level mafiosos. Chaff that had been cleared out in Penguin's rise to power. Their files had confessions and transcriptions of recordings taken from meetings secretly taken by moles who'd eventually been exposed and executed. Penguin had been beyond ruthless in his takeover. There was no question of that. But the personality Edward had pieced together from overheard conversations between Gordon and Bullock and the laments of Captain Essen and so many others didn't fit with the image of the man he'd met in the dark of the loft. He needed to do a more thorough analysis and for that he needed more examples to study.

In the end, he signed out on four thick files and a single box of notes on very low-level gang members who had had run-ins with Penguin before he'd left the shadow of Fish Mooney.

The transcriptions were the best sources of new data. They were largely unusable as evidence since most of them couldn't confirm that the words being attributed to Penguin were actually his. It was largely based on people saying they recognized his voice rather than confirmed sightings of him entering the buildings at the time of the recordings. He could be a ghost when he wanted to.

He'd read many of the transcriptions before, but he'd imagined a loud, angry man, practically frothing at the mouth, screaming his head off. Volatile and more than a little exaggerated in his anger, like an actor on stage over-performing so his expression could be seen even in the very, very back.

Now he imagined the words being said with a soft, just slightly amused tone that held a quiet confidence that the person speaking could do whatever they wanted and nothing would be able to touch them. It painted an extremely different picture. A refinement that seemed almost natural rather than a caricature of what a child might think the upper class should sound like. There were times where it was noted that 'Penguin' sounded particularly displeased and angry, and for that he wondered if there was, in fact, some truth in his previous assessment. But not an overwhelming, constant thing as he'd been assuming. Just moments before the man caught himself and pulled himself back to the calm, level tone he'd used with Edward.

The files were still in his office. He had them memorized but he was still going to go over them again. And again. As long as this curiosity consumed him.

Tonight, though, he was at the Lounge. At a smaller table with a different bird than before making sure he had everything he needed. He sat there, nursing first one, then two, of his favorite drinks, for a couple of hours. He had picked a spot where he could see directly down the back hall and then he'd waited. There was a security guard at the far end this time so he needed to wait.

When the line to the bathroom finally started to get to the point of not-quite unruly, he stood to go join it. There were four doors and logically a single line would have worked fine, but the herd mentality had decided that four doors meant four lines. He made his way to the line for the door closest to the guard. He did so carefully, knocking into only one person, who turned to face him but found themselves looking at a woman instead. The guy was at the point of being fully drunk. He had a friend who'd guided him down the hall and was keeping him focused on waiting for the door. But he was the angry sort of drunk who took offense to everything.

So he did what was only natural to his small, intoxicated brain. He called the woman a bitch and told her he'd knock her teeth in if she did that again. He wasn't clear on what 'that' was, but the woman's escort - another woman with more piercings than where healthy - dared him to try it. Too much alcohol among the group and a fight broke out with only a few outliers trying to get away from it, Edward included.

The incident wasn't one the guard could ignore. And once he'd pushed past Ed to try and break up the knot of people, Ed made a dash for the end of the hall. This time he did actually jump the cordon. He stumbled on the landing and had to bite down on a pained cry so that it came out as a pained hiss. It took a second to recenter himself, then he hurried the rest of the way up the stairs.

Once around the corner and out of line of sight, he let himself lean against the wall and bite a knuckle to try and trick his head into ignoring the pain in his shin. It didn't quite work, but it was enough of a distraction that after a minute or two he could focus on the hall in front of him. As the cordon had indicated, the Loft was closed again. The hall dark and the light from below the burg the only thing leading him forward.

He stopped at the point that the hall of private rooms ended and the Loft spread out before him. He kept himself hidden right at the corner in an attempt to case the room and see if Penguin was even there before he made himself known.

His attempt was foolhardy as that soft voice called out to him just as he picked out the figure of a man sitting at a table on the other end of the U from him.

"Hello, friend. I see you're trespassing again." There was a more clear sense of amusement this time around. "How did you duck security this time?"

He let out the breath he'd been holding and grinned, straightening up to start the trek around the room, "I started a fight in the line to the restrooms then hopped the cordon."

"That's close enough," the voice murmured, warning, but still amused. Silence followed and he could just make out the shape of the man lifting a glass to take a drink. He shifted his position slightly, body moving into the light from below as he leaned himself against the back of the booth he was in. It sat directly against the railing around the burg.

"Did you know that there are only seventeen species of penguins and they're all exclusively found in the southern hemisphere in the wild? There is no such thing as a 'Northern Penguin'." He couldn't help himself as the detail spilled from lips and was followed half a second later with: "Except for you." and a giddy little grin.

He took another drink, expression turned contemplative, "You know who I am?"

"Oh yes. I recognized you the first time. Well, not right away. But it wasn't hard to figure out. You're very well known-"

"At the GCPD? Yes, I know," he interrupted. "You aren't the usual sort I see Detective Flass with."

That caught Ed off guard. He assumed Penguin knew a great many of the detectives at the precinct, but to be familiar with Flass enough to know his usual crowd or and that Ed was an outlier...

"Are you surprised I know who among the cops frequent my establishment, or that I know you're with the GCPD, too?"

"Neither," he answered immediately. "Well, not that you know which officers come by, but that you know their, as you said, usual sort. It's not a detail I would have expected you to care about. I'm certain it's relevant enough at times, but I would have thought it's something someone else keeps track of for you."

"I didn't get where I am by trusting everyone else to have all the facts," he answered and this time a smile did crest his lips, shadows pulling at the edge of his cheek, keeping his eyes mostly in the dark.

"So." he said it forcefully, clearly making a change in topic as he set his empty glass down and focused his attention on Edward. "Tell me. Knowing what you know and how dangerous it is for you to so brazenly enter my domain, why have you returned? The first time I understand. I've seen it happen before. Not here, but in other clubs I've worked at. But surely you couldn't have thought this would be a good idea?"

Ed laughed, his shoulders pulling up to his ears and his nose scrunching, "Actually, I thought it was an excellent idea! When else does someone like me have a chance to meet someone like you? You're..." He paused, mouth open, searching for the right words, excited beyond measure. "You're the _Penguin_. In less than a year, you wrested the warring gangs that have fought over Gotham since it's founding from the very hands of the oldest crime families in the city and forced them all to kneel and kiss your hand and acknowledge you as their superior. You united forces under your heel that no one else has ever been able to lay low. You took what was a once a tepid pot and brought it to a frothing boil that couldn't be contained and orchestrated the single greatest takeover of a mafia group that has ever happened in this city. You...

"You're amazing," he finished, nearly breathless. "How could I not want to try and meet you again?"

He was staring at him, looking as though he was trying to fight his own face-splitting grin. He pressed his lips together and turned his head, putting himself in the dark once more. "That's not exactly a healthy outlook for someone in the police department to have."

"I'm in forensics." A short paused and then he added on, "I'm allowed to have hobbies."

A laugh broke through the room. It was unrestrained and beautiful and made him momentarily desperate to see what the man looked like when he made such a mesmerizing sound.

"You should get going, friend," he was told as the laughter died away into a chuckle. An arm slipped off the back of the booth and into the light, thin fingers gesturing toward the bar, "Take the service exit. There will be less questions."

The dismissal was disappointing, but Ed shuffled toward a second set of stairs hidden behind a low wall that was only visible once he got close. He stopped, turning to look toward that back corner now so shrouded in shadow he couldn't make out anything. His only assurance that the man was still there being the lack of any noise indicating he'd gotten up and left.

He grinned and waved, biting back on the temptation to say anything more before taking the stairs down. He hadn't been sure what sort of encounter he might have the second time around. He hadn't dared fantasize about. He could easily have been killed. Rightfully, probably. Here, in the heart of Penguin's empire, someone could get murdered in the middle of the dance floor and there would be no witnesses. No one would talk. And they'd all be back the next night, not realizing or maybe not even caring that next time it could be them. The danger of it all, the open secret that the proprietor of the Lounge was the most powerful criminal in Gotham... that was the draw.

No one really expected to see the man himself, however.

No one but Edward. Now that he'd had a taste of it. Now that he'd gotten away with it.

He was going to try it again.

He had to.


	3. Chapter 3

**10:15pm, January 17; The Iceburg Lounge; Edward Nygma**

He didn't get another chance to try it before the next time Dougherty invited him out for drinks with the crew. Three homicides in four days linked by the victims all wearing the same clothing meant overtime hours to try and figure out the culprit before a fourth could join them. Edward was rightfully acknowledged by the department as the best at spotting patterns and noticing odd details most others missed. It was only because of his work that Gordon and Bullock were able to, once again, heroically locate and stop the suspect just before the next victim was to be executed. He didn't feel any real disgruntlement about that. The lack of recognition in the papers and GCPD at large wasn't personal. Forensics was crucial to cases like that, but their work wasn't exciting enough to gossip about. A heart-pounding chase through an alley or a last ditch shoot out, those were memorable and worth mention.

But in the aftermath, Dougherty remembered him. He was closest to Ed among Flass's crew, though that only meant he was the only one that waved to him when they passed in the hall. Still, it was more than most people gave him. The closest thing he had to a friend.

He happily agreed to come. They were going to the Lounge again. Apparently the place they'd been planning on going got shut down over a failed health inspection and the Lounge was their hold out option. They tried not to go there more than twice a month, supposedly. He wasn't sure if that was just something they said or something they actually did. They claimed it was because the prices were too high to hit it normally. So far that hadn't seemed to be a problem when Ed was around, though.

And of course it somehow ended up being his turn to cover the tab. Again.

Only this time, there was an actual problem in that prospect. He tried to tell them that his paycheck hadn't cleared at the bank yet so he could only safely cover the first fifty. He had. He'd brought it up with each drink ordered, tried to get a word in edgewise while the others talked over him with their own conversations about this investigation or that hot piece of ass or what they thought the spread for Sunday's game would be.

And he'd dutifully paid the first fifty of the tab, including tip. He'd gone up to the bar, paid his part, and told them the rest would be covered by the others. The bartender took note of it. Their bird took note of it. And apparently security had been informed because, when the guys set to leave they were, one by one, stopped and informed that they had a bill to pay first. Each of them claiming one of the others would pay for it and getting sent back into the crowd and denied passage to the exit until it was taken care of.

That led to Flass himself rudely digging his wallet out of the pocket of his coat while he'd gotten up to grab some more napkins to deal with a spill. This in turn led to his card being run and declined. And that led to him being roughly manhandled by security up the stairwell to the Loft to join the rest of the group where he was pushed into a chair, his coat, wallet and card handed to him, and told to stay put.

After his second encounter with Penguin he'd dared to imagine the third one going much the same. Where he'd find a way to sneak up, maybe use the service entrance since no one had questioned his presence in the back as he'd made his way through it to the floor, and be allowed just a few feet closer. Be allowed a couple more minutes of conversation before his dismissal. He'd even been preparing topics to talk about that he hoped the man would find interesting. At least enough that he could stay just that much longer.

This was so far removed from any of that, that all he could do was wring his hands in his coat and hope he wouldn't be permanently kicked out of the club. He liked the atmosphere as much as anything else. The people were nice to him. At least they _were._ Until his card had declined.

"If you couldn't cover the tab on your turn to do so, you shouldn't have come out with us," Dougherty hissed at him. He didn't sound mad. He looked concerned. Ed hoped it was concern for him and not because they may all be at risk of losing their kneecaps.

He bit at his lip, worried at it a moment, then murmured back, "I said I could only cover the first fifty when we were ordering! And I paid it, too!"

"Shut up," one of the gorillas grunted, kicking his chair to jostle him. "No talking until the boss gets here."

They fell into silence and Ed mentally began counting the seconds just to keep himself occupied and his mind off all the terrible things that could happen to them. It took two thousand and twenty two seconds for them to be approached by Penguin himself. The sound of his limping gait was distinctive as he came up the stairs of the service entrance and stared coolly at the group.

The lights were on this time around. The loft itself was an exercise in restrained opulence. All the seats were black leather and the tables white-frosted glass from the top to the bottom. Supports and all. It was likely a security glass for strength and to avoid accidental breakage from impacts, but it was glass all the same and it lent a delicate, ice-like ethereal quality to the room. An entirely different atmosphere than one got below the burg.

At the moment, it also had an arctic chill that suffused the room. And it emanated from the Penguin himself. His dispassionate gaze making Ed feel more exposed and bereft of protection than he'd felt since... well, those were days he'd hoped to have behind him. At least if he was beaten senseless it would be business and nothing more.

A smile blossomed on Penguin's face and it held not a lick of warmth, "Gentlemen. My staff informs me that the six of you are trying to give them the run around on your bill. Usually I don't step in on such disputes and leave it to my fine associates here," he lifted a hand to gesture toward the bulky men surrounding them, "But as this concerns you, Mr. Flass," Penguin's eyes fell on the detective and his hand closed into a fist while his lips pressed into an even harder forced smile, "I felt it necessary to see to this personally. You and your ilk are allowed on these premises _only_-" Penguin's lips curled and the famed temper that all the reports spoke of shone through for a blink-and-you'd-miss it moment before the false friend facade returned "-because Commissioner Leob and I have a mutual understanding regarding each other's _friends_."

He let his eyes fall to his cuffs and straightened them for a few seconds, making a show of pretending to do some thinking on the matter. When he was done, he let his hands drop to his sides and ticked his head towards them. One of the men came forward and held out his own hand to the group.

"Each of you pay up a hundred immediately and I will forget this affront ever happened. You'll still be allowed to come by. And I won't have take time out of my very busy schedule to ask Leob if really needs to you stick around his organization that badly, Detective. I'm sure we'd arrive at some sort of mutually beneficial agreement, but the less I have to speak with the dear Commissioner in person, the better."

The guys waited for Flass to act first before they followed suit in digging out their wallets and counting out a hundred each in various bills. As each stood and put the money into the goon's hands they were allowed to leave, one at a time. They exited down the hall. Dougherty was the last to go. He tossed Ed a pitying look and mouthed 'sorry' with a shit-happens shrug before he turned his back and disappeared.

That left Ed. Alone. Without the money necessary to buy his own exit.

He shut his eyes and took a deep breath. When he let it go and opened his eyes, he stood up, folding his coat neatly. He took a step to the side and turned to set it down on the chair furthest from where he'd been sitting. His glasses followed as did his wallet, set just to the side. He shuffled back to his chair, squinting as he tried to make out more than just the shapes of the men around him, defined more by the dark lumps set against the stark white of the Loft's decor.

He smiled and it fell quickly. Trying to be pleasant about this wasn't going to help him at all, nor would it get it over with faster. Setting his shoulders, he folded his hands in front of himself and nodded. His voice came out with a meekness he wasn't proud of, but none of them would be able to say he wasn't ready to take what they believed he deserved, "I'd really appreciate it if you didn't break my glasses, so if you feel the need to toss me around, please do so away from them."

He did, however, squeeze his eyes shut very tightly in anticipation of the first blow. He didn't want to see it coming, no matter how little of it he'd be able to see.

The distinct thump-drag of Penguin's gait was loud in his ears. It wasn't until he spoke that Ed realized he'd been coming toward him, not leaving his men to their work.

"You, Mr. Nygma, are no longer allowed to open a tab." Ed opened his eyes to find the Penguin close enough he could easily count every freckle on his nose and cheeks without any being blurred by distance. He was looking down because the man was shorter than him, but he felt like he was looking up at someone so far above him he had no chance of bridging the distance. Ed's breath hitched as Penguin pressed just a fraction closer and it was like he was being swallowed up by his presence alone. He hadn't really wondered at people being scared of the man. He had cunning and resources and a clear willingness to do what it took to claw his way to the top. But now he understood the fear, how unnervingly he must be to others who saw him this way. There was a power to it.

"Wow."

He didn't realized he'd said it or that he was grinning down at the man until his face twisted with confusion at Ed's reaction.

"Sorry," he gulped, nervous laughter bubbling up out of him as he reached backwards for some sort of support and found it in the chest of one of the men he'd completely forgot had existed until that reminder, "It's just... _wow_. You're absolutely frightening when you're like that."

The confusion continued to play across his features and he crossed his arms, but didn't move away. Something Ed appreciated because he liked his features remaining so crisp and defined and not being a smeared mass of fuzz the way everything else was.

"You aren't acting particularly 'frightened', friend."

Friend. He was back to being called friend!

"Oh, I'm utterly terrified," he admitted, still laughing, knowing he would probably break down crying once he got home. "But I've hit the point that epinephrine, more commonly known as adrenaline, has 'kicked in' as they say. Because I'm not currently experiencing the sort of danger and physically stressful situations that it's intended to help a body survive, I'm starting to feel the side effects in the more detrimental ways. A one time exposure of this sort isn't going to cause any permanent damage but it does produce a light-headed sensation and dizziness due to my airways dilating to allow an increased oxygen flow to my muscles which my body currently assumes I'm going to need. And I probably will once you have your men start beating me into a pulp, but for the moment it's really very... it's pretty great."

Penguin stared a few moments longer, eyes searching his face, before he stepped back and became one with the blobs and blurs. He could tell he was straightening his coat, the action just large enough for his mind to supply the appropriate mental image if not track the real one.

"As I was saying," he started again while turning and starting the walk to the service entrance, "You are no longer allowed to open a tab. Do enjoy the rest of your evening."

He disappeared entirely, no longer anything in the surreal frame of moving smudges that was his vision. He was taken by the arm and led the other way, down the hall. At the top of the stairs his glasses were handed back to him, then his wallet and coat once he'd put them back on with shaking hands. The man who'd grabbed him gestured downward. Ed stared back at him, not sure if he was supposed to walk down them or throw himself down them so the man didn't have to put any effort into roughing him up. The impasse was broken as the guy let out a frustrated noise and growled 'get!'

He jumped at the sound and hurried down the stairs, the excess energy finally having something to do other than than make him high. He didn't remember making it to his car or even the drive home. He got there, obviously, since he woke up in his bed still fully dressed from the night before.

He couldn't open a tab. But he wasn't banned. And the only hand laid on him was the one that escorted him out.

He could still go back.


	4. Chapter 4

**11:45am, January 18; GCPD Central; Edward Nygma**

He bit his lip to keep from making a sound that would carry too far as Flass shoved him into the lockers. He had the unfortunate luck to hit in just the right spot that two padlocks dug painfully into his back. Trying to push himself away was an exercise in futility because Flass followed up on the shove by grabbing him by the collar and holding him in place.

"The five of us are out a hundred each cause of you," he stated as a reminder, as if Ed would have any reason to think this encounter was about anything else. "So you're gonna get fifty to each of us by tomorrow night. And this time next week, you're gonna do the same. And just for the trouble of having to do this, you're gonna do it, _again,_ the week after. You got that clear in your head?" Ed was pulled forward just far enough his head and shoulders could be slammed backwards into the metal, jarring him with the pain but causing no damage.

He shook his head vigorously, "Ye-yes. I got it. Loud and clear."

He didn't think it fair in the slightest, but trying to fight it would only get him hurt further. He'd contemplate getting them back some other way. After the threat of physical violence against him was over and done with.

Flass let him go and smiled as if there had never been a problem, "Good. I like you, Ed. Really, I do. You're fun. But you gotta handle your money better. Stuff like what happened last night has consequences for more than just you." Flass straightened his collar so it wasn't obvious he'd had it bunched up mere moments before. Talked down to him like his I.Q. wasn't at least five times higher. "Now, the boys and me, we're gonna go out again tonight. You're welcome to come, but since we're out of cash cause of you, and your card is shot, you're gonna have to find a way to cover your own part of the tab. We don't really like breaking it that way, but you're our friend, you know. So we'll let it fly this time."

"You- you think of me as a friend?" the revenge plots he'd been contemplating rushed from his mind, replaced with a surprised hope that started a fluttering sensation in his gut.

Flass spread his arms and nodded, "Yeah. Are you kidding? Course we do. Sure, Dougherty was the one that suggested we let you tag along that first night out, but we wouldn't have invited you the other times if we didn't like you. I mean, yeah, you're weird. And you got next to no sense for anything social, but that doesn't mean you aren't fun to have around."

He slapped his shoulder, "You pay us back and we'll be square. We'll be at the Tap Room. Seven, like usual. See you there, right?"

"Right," he answered with a hesitating smile, then with more confidence, "Right. Seven. See you there."

Flass left him to straighten up and even with the daunting prospect of having to pay the guys back three fold - that was almost half his monthly paycheck - he couldn't help the excitement that curled up his spine. They thought of him as a friend.

He had work friends.

Four years at GCPD Central and he finally had friends at work.

The money meant nothing next to that.

**7:02pm, January 18; The Tap Room; Edward Nygma**

He entered the bar and was immediately waved down by Dougherty. The crew had grabbed a booth in the back corner and the place was only just starting to get crowded so they could still easily see to the door. He headed straight there and slid into the seat at the end, the others scooting over to make room like it was natural. Like he belonged there.

"I know you said you wanted it tomorrow," he started right away, pulling the envelope the bank had given him with the two fifty tucked away in perfect, fresh fifties, "But I figured since we were already going to see each other tonight, I'd just get it to you now."

Flass eyed him with an expression Ed couldn't pin down before laughing and reaching over to take the money. He pulled it out and slid one crisp bill to each of the others while Dougherty slapped Ed on the back in a friendly way.

"Good man, Ed," Flass said, balling up the now-empty envelope and throwing it at him so it hit him in the chest without any force. "You're a good man." He looked to the rest of them, "See? What I'd tell you. Ed's not the sort to scrooge us."

Flass leaned forward as a round of drinks was delivered. Six beers. He slid one over to Ed, "We ordered for you. Kowalski thought you wouldn't show cause you'd be embarrassed about the whole credit card thing. But I told him you weren't the sort. You know you ain't gotta worry about that with us. Everyone has money problems some times. Nothing to be ashamed of."

"Yeah, sorry about that," Kolwalski didn't sound that sorry, but it was the same sort of giving-someone-shit-for-shits-sake that he did with the rest and they were all ripping into each other. "So I gotta know. How'd you get away from the Lounge without a limp? Thought the best case scenario for you was you'd be walking like the Penguin himself. Wak!"

The others laughed, and though Ed smiled, he didn't really feel comfortable with the joke. Laughing at the Penguin, with all he'd done despite everything he'd gone through... it felt wrong. So he smiled and waited for them to calm down and when they did, they actually looked like they were ready to pay attention to what he was saying. It was a new feeling, having the five of them waiting and seemingly eager to listen to him.

All the other times they only paid passing attention to him.

But tonight, they were really noticing him.

"Well, I'm not allowed to have a tab anymore," he started, leaning forward, really joining the group for the first time. "But I think I only got leniency because I'm not worth the trouble of dealing with Commissioner Leob over one of your friends, Mr. Flass."

"Arnold," Flass corrected. "We've been hanging out for what? Close to a month now and you're still with that whole mister shit. Flass is okay, too. Lord knows I don't know Kolwaski's first name."

"Fuck you," Kolwaski answered to another round of laughter and then shrugged, "And I hate my first name so don't fucking use it and we're good."

Ed joined in on the laughter, the conversation pealing away into other topics after that. He could only think that perhaps the shared experience of being threatened by the Penguin was the catalyst for the guys really accepting him. For the first time since going out with them, he felt like part of the group. Like he was one of the boys.

**7:10pm, January 24; The Iceburg Lounge; Edward Nygma**

He didn't manage to find the time to go out with the guys again until the next week. Flass had come in around noon to remind him about the second payment and he'd promised to have it by the end of the day. Flass mentioned they were going to hit up the Lounge again. They'd given it a week away and he figured that would be enough time to cool any heads over there in case there was still some lingering tension. But if Ed came, he'd have to cover the tab. At Ed's reminder that he wasn't allowed to open any tabs, Flass waved it off and said one of them would cover it as far as the Lounge was concerned and Ed could catch them up the next day.

He wanted to protest, but he'd learned the previous week that when they talked about the tab rotation, it was based generally on which day of the week it was. They were used to a five-person rotation and had established a policy that any new guy who was invited for a one- or two-off night out with them would have to get the check since the rest of them did it so regularly. Their crew had been running just fine as a five man work friends group for going on something like fifteen years. Since just after Dougherty graduated from bootcamp and got his first posting. Which actually made it closer to twelve years, but hyperbole was rampant among them and Ed had quickly figured out was just a quirk of how they talked as a whole.

Flass had explained that Ed had thrown the whole set up out of kilter because unlike previous invitees, they actually liked having him around. And since Ed didn't join them on any regular set day basis when at least three of them got together for after-work drinks five days a week (Tuesday through Saturday), it had made figuring out the whole who pays on what days thing get confusing. Five days out vs six people and all that.

The math was something Ed could have easily done and had started to offer to do only to have the guys interrupt him with groans and generally displeased noises and complaints of that being too much work. Flass said not to worry about it. He'd been the one to come up with the day of the week thing before and he'd figure something out that would be fair without getting into complicated scheduling that only a smartypants like Ed could understand.

The compliment had hit him right in the heart. They knew he was smarter than him and it, oddly, didn't seem to bother them. Sure they'd said it like an insult - smartypants was generally considered an insulting way of talking about someone - but half the time they were insulting each other back and forth without any of it sticking. It was a new way of communicating respect and a sense of shared camaraderie that he wasn't used to. But when he offered his own, tentative ribbing back at them the previous week, they'd taken it like it was a compliment.

And the difference in how he was treated at work, during working hours, in that short span of time was a staggering, drastic change. Instead of it being just Dougherty that waved to him in passing, it was Dougherty running after him to catch him up on the stupid shit he had to put up with while on patrol. It was Kowalksi putting his hand up for a high five when they greeted each other and asking him if he looked like he'd lost five pounds yet cause his doctor was pushing him to lose weight. It was Flass coming over and draping his arm across his shoulder when they were both in the records annex and he was in the middle of regaling Kristen with tales of the latest narcotics bust he'd been involved in. It was Jacobs and Choi offering to grab him a sandwich when they went to lunch, or pouring him a coffee if they saw him while they were getting their own.

And it was, unfortunately, him having to dip into his savings account to cover the bills for the month because of a bounced check and the seven fifty he had to pay them as well as whatever he'd end up needing to cover for tonight.

But he could deal with it.

They were his friends and a little bit of a rocky start to paying his fair share in the group hangouts could be smoothed over.

He was the first to arrive at the Lounge. Not surprising considering that his day had ended firmly at five and the others had more uncertain schedules since they were beat cops and detectives. He entered, uncertainty milling in his gut until he was past the door and into the main room where he was greeted warmly by one of the birds. She called him by name, even - Mr. Nygma - and asked if his friends would be joining him or if he was alone. He answered the former and was led to a spacious booth that would easily fit all of them.

Mere moments after he was seated, one of the bartenders brought over a grasshopper for him.

"It's good to see you again, Mr. Nygma," he said as he set the drink down in front of him. "We've missed you. You should come in more than once a week."

The greeting and the sentiment were unexpected. Particularly after his disastrous last visit. He was at a loss for words but managed a short, somewhat choked 'thank you.'

The bartender waited until he'd tried the drink and set it back down to continue, "We've been informed, of course, that you are not allowed to open a tab. But if you'd like to pre-purchase a set number of cocktails so you don't have to worry about paying every time we bring one over, that is acceptable."

"Oh! Yes," his face lit up. What a clever solution! He opened his wallet and counted out his total to the penny, "Thank you. This should be exactly enough for three of the mega-grasshoppers, this one, and the gratuity."

The bartender's mouth opened like he wanted to say something, a correction perhaps, as his eyes scanned the money. But instead his smile returned and he reached out to take it, "You're very good with math, Mr. Nygma. Thank you so much. I'll make sure Wren knows what to bring you when you run out."

He left Nygma, the crowds growing fast, to wait for his friends.

**7:15pm, January 24; The Iceburg Lounge; Oswald Cobblepot**

Before Nygma even entered the building, he'd been informed of his presence. He didn't interfere with him entering the building or the staff doing their job as they'd been told. But as he watched the man get seated and Mr. Wesker bring him his drink, he noticed how the bartender hesitated just a bit too long before accepting the payment.

Five minutes later, Wesker was standing across from him in the darkened Loft. The man's expression was difficult to see with the lights kept low the way he did when he wanted to observe the first floor without distractions. But his stiff posture made it clear he had done something that could get him in trouble and he was currently certain he was about to be fired for doing it.

"Was there a problem with Mr. Nygma's payment?" he asked, eyes not so much on the main floor as they were on the man in question. He was so odd. His reactions to him had been so curiously different than expected. It made him interesting.

"No, sir, Mr. Cobblepot," Wesker answered immediately. "His money was good. No counterfeits among the bills or coins."

"Then why did it take you so long to collect it?"

The man had taken a heartbeat too long, just enough to be noticeable by Oswald's keen eyes. Anywhere else it would probably have been overlooked. But with as focused as he was on Nygma, it wasn't going to fly. Especially when the bartender was betraying himself so thoroughly in his body language.

He took a moment to answer, a deep breath first, clearly preparing himself for the worst he could think of. At least he was going to be honest about his mistake.

"Mr. Nygma ordered three mega-grasshoppers. They're made strictly with top-shelf liquor, but he calculated the payment for them based on the mega-margarita which is top-shelf optional. I assume this is because the regular sizes are both top-shelf optional and cost the same when using the well liquor. The cost would be correct if the mega-grasshoppers were top-shelf optional."

"And you chose to let it slide and not tell him the actual cost," he stated the obvious as his eyes broke away from Nygma now that his group of friends - what he saw in them when he was so very different, Oswald didn't have enough information to guess at - had arrived and started sitting down with him. He, instead, considered the man in front of him. It wasn't something that would hurt business in any way. It was, however, the sort of call that was usually left to the lead bartender to make, not one of the hourlies.

With a sigh, he shrugged. This wasn't worth making an example of. "Make a note of it in the VIP comps record book. But don't do it for anyone else at that table."

"Yes, sir, Mr. Cobblepot," he acknowledged with a bob of his head and, recognizing his dismissal, turned to hurry away at a pace that couldn't be called a jog, but was far too fast for even the usual professional hustle the waitstaff had to employ. Like a fire had been lit under his ass.

Good. A healthy sense of fear would serve him well in his position.


	5. Chapter 5

**12:44pm, January 29; Street Tacos, Robinson Park; Edward Nygma**

"So I figured out a solution to the whole rotation thing," Flass said as he paid for their lunch and passed a terribly overstuffed burrito to Ed and got a drink back in return. He'd been invited out for a walk and talk since the day was nice even with the biting chill of winter in the air. The sky was even clear of both clouds or smog and the sun was shining brightly on them. A rare event for Gotham City. It happened perhaps seven days total out of each year. If they were lucky to even get that many.

But as far as solutions went, Ed had figured out a perfectly good and very fair math based one that even took into account next year's leap year and all holidays. But when he'd started talking about it, Flass had again waved it off because that was 'too much work for any sane man'.

"Shoot!" he said, grinning and sitting down on an empty bench with enough space that Flass could sit next to him. Just two friends having lunch together. How exciting to think this could become a regular thing!

"Well, the rest of us, we got the day thing down. We're used to it. Changing that's going to be hard. So I was thinking, we just keep to that. When we go out on Tuesday, I pay, Kowalski has Wednesday, Choi Thursday, Jacobs Friday, and Dougherty Saturday. It's a good system. Instead of you covering a specific day, you can just keep doing what we been doing the last couple weeks," he explained between bites. "You hand over fifty to each of us every week to cover the difference of whatever the cost would have been if you had taken a day. With six of us going out, it's more expensive all around so it's not like you'll be overpaying. And none of us are complaining, I want you to know that. We're just fine covering your fru-fru drinks. Not a problem."

Ed frowned, taking some time to chew and swallow while he did some mental calculations. He was pretty sure the average bar-tab most nights at places other than the Lounge usually ran around sixty to seventy, maybe closer to ninety if they assumed Ed's drinks were going to be about three dollars higher than theirs and he'd get four. The Lounge's price tag for the same level of drinking ran double the normal. That would be between one-hundred-twenty and possibly two-hundred a visit. Basic guesstimate was that he would be paying between fifty and a hundred a more each week than the rest of them.

"I think your math is off," he began, but was cut off.

"No," Flass rested a hand heavily on his shoulder. His eyes met Ed's and Ed had a mental flashback to two weeks before when he'd been confronted in the locker room with the same tone and a far clearer threat of bodily harm. Flass's hand squeezed just hard enough to start being painful before releasing the hold, "I got the math right. Fifty each a week. If you don't plan on going out with us that week, you can skip. Just don't skip too many. We might start to get the impression you don't want to be friends any more."

Ed blinked a couple times and nodded, eyes dropping as he murmured, "Okay."

Flass grinned at him, the hand shifting to his back where he got a friendly pat, "I knew you'd understand. You're a team player. One of the things I like about you."

He finished his meal and stood up, balling up the wrapper and tossing it toward a nearby trash can. It bounced off the edge and he tsked. Then turned and gave another pat to Ed's shoulder just before walking away, "See you tonight. Seven. Copper Flask."

"I'll be there," he forced a smile and hoped it sounded genuinely happy.

Fifty a week. To each of them. Two-hundred-fifty a week total. One-thousand a month. Half his paycheck.

But they were his friends. And they did pay for his lunches sometimes, outside of the nightly outings they did as a group. He hadn't factored that into his calculations of the bar tab shares. Assuming they did the same for each other on a daily or bi-daily basis, it probably did come out closer to about one-hundred-fifty to two-hundred spent by each of them on their friends every week. He'd have to pay more attention to what meals and drinks brought in for each other cost so he could be sure.

But if that was being counted, then yes, it was likely a fair number to expect from him. He just... wasn't used to that kind of expense. Yes, that's all. Having friends meant spending money on them the way they did on him.

It was expensive, but it was an expense he could work around. He'd simply have to tighten his budget a bit more.

**7:17pm, January 30; The Iceburg Lounge; Edward Nygma**

He wasn't sure what exactly possessed him to bring his books to the Lounge to try and work out living on just half his paycheck, but he'd been too distracted to do it at work. And when he'd tried it at home, his mind kept going in circles and he read the same simple equation at least twenty times before he had to admit he was getting no where. He'd needed a change of scenery and the first place that came to mind was the Lounge's Loft.

He entered the building and Wren greeted him again. It was with a strange sense of relief - one he didn't want to analyse - that he answered he was alone tonight. The guys were hitting the Tap Room again.

Wren led him to the bar and asked him to wait while she checked if there was a free table small enough for one or two people that he could claim. The bartender from before greeted him. He held up a hand to stave off the mixing of a drink.

"Water, please. I'm not really here to drink tonight," he admitted, feeling a bit like a mooch since the whole point of clubs like this was to drink and see and be seen.

The man shrugged and didn't lose his smile, "If you change your mind, let me know. Anything else I can do for you before I get to the rest of these orders, Mr. Nygma?"

He was about to say 'no' when a thought occurred to him, "Actually. Could you tell me if the Loft is open tonight?"

"No, sir. It's closed."

"And Mr. Pen- um, Mr... the owner. Is he here tonight?"

That question got a surprised eyebrow raise, but the man still answered, "Not yet, sir. He'll be in later. Should I ask if he'd be willing to see you when he does arrive?"

"No! No. No no no no..." He grinned and shook his head, "I don't want to trouble him. But... if it's possible... Could I go up to the Loft? I have some paperwork I need to do and I've been too distracted by other things at work and my apartment. I felt a change of scenery would help, but... I think it might get even harder to go through this with the crowd as packed as it is tonight. I didn't think it would be this busy. I'll understand if you can't bring the lights up. But even just sitting at the top of the stairs near the bar should give me enough to work by. I'd sit by the railing, but I don't think the light from down here would be strong enough or consistent enough to see properly."

"End of the month and beginning of the month are some of the busiest days. A lot of people get paid right about now," the man said slowly. He looked like he was thinking about the request and seriously considering it. A surprise because even as Ed had asked, he figured he'd be laughed out of the club for the presumption. "They like to spend what they can before the bills come due."

The man glanced down the line of the bar and waved the other bartender on duty over just as Wren came back. She was touching Ed's arm to get his attention when he held up a hand, "Mr. Nygma won't be needing that table. Nothing's wrong. He just has a special request. I'm going to see to it and then be right back."

Wren's concerned confusion cleared and she dropped her and, bidding Ed a friendly goodbye on the assumption he'd be leaving after the request was filled. headed back into the fray. The other bartender did the same.

"Arnold Wesker, by the way," he introduced himself as he led Ed into the back. Unlike his last visit through those halls, his presence gained questioning glances. Leaving didn't cause them, but entering did. Interesting. Arnold made a few faces and quiet hand gestures to reassure every look and turn attention away from them. He otherwise remained silent until he'd led Ed up the stairs of the service entrance.

"We can't turn the lights on full," he explained as he brought up a set of very soft, very low, blue lights that lit up the bottom edge of the railing and flickered in and out at random, casting over the burg and in doing so, imitated the look of water trapped beneath just enough to give the illusion it was floating. Another light came on, over the table at the far end of the room. The one the Penguin had been sitting in the second time he'd been here. "But that table can be lit up without turning the rest of them on. All the pendant lights are pretty low wattage, but that should be enough to see by. Do you think your paperwork will take very long?"

Ed smiled at the man, another Arnold, but with the luck of not being Flass, "It shouldn't, no. Thank you for this."

"You're welcome, Mr. Nygma. When you're finished and ready to go, shut off the lights and leave using the service entrance. No one will ask any questions."

That statement again. He wanted to ask about it, but that might be edging too close to the Penguin's known criminal element. Something he, logically, knew he should avoid. Oh, but his curiosity screamed at him to know why no one would question someone leaving, but had looked ready to confront him to a man if Wesker hadn't indicated it was fine when they traveled inward. Firstly, how did they know the difference?

He held back on it and nodded, bouncing on his toes, "Okie dokie."

Wesker gave him a funny look but didn't say anything about the answer before he went back downstairs to get back to his duties. Ed lifted a hand in a wave to his back and turned toward the booth. The Penguin had sat there before. Was it his booth? Or was it just the one he'd chosen to sit in that night? He had his choice of seats, after all. And he hadn't been there the first time around. He'd been behind the bar. Cleaning glasses.

He slid into the seat, scooting around so he could see the entrance as he flipped his notebook open and took several sheets out. All those other questions could wait. He needed to figure out how he was going to make this new budget work.

**10:33pm, January 30; The Iceburg Lounge; Wren**

Mr. Cobblepot was, of course, immediately informed of the man using his booth in the otherwise closed Loft. The whole staff knew he was there. Arnold hadn't tried to hide what he was doing, what he was allowing. Wren hadn't found out until a half hour later. The floor had been too busy for her to get word of it until then.

"Who authorized this?" the King of the Underworld asked in a too-calm tone that meant things could go either way for the offender, depending on who it was and what their justification for the actions were. Seeing as how Wesker was a low-level nobody on the scale of employee value, he was probably going to get beaten. And fired. Beaten and fired.

No one had tried to stop him doing what he'd done, of course. If someone decided to risk themselves like that, the rule was to let them dig their own grave. Still, Wren did feel a bit bad about it all. She understood his decision. Mr. Nygma had always been very kind to the staff and beyond polite, above and beyond what they were used to getting. It was kind of a shame his friends weren't nearly so good, but he, at least, always tried to apologize for them and make sure everything was paid for. Well, until his tab privileges had been revoked.

Since Arnold wasn't there to claim ownership of his actions, the bar being too busy, Finch spoke up and named him. Sure the rule was dig your own grave, but she didn't need to help him climb in faster. The only reason the two of them were even in the back and able to stand before Mr. Cobblepot was because Wesker had gotten Lark and Thrush to cover their tables and let them have a ten minute break.

Karma was a bitch, though, because she was just new enough not to have learned the other rule: don't be a snitch unless the Boss wanted you to be a snitch. It was a lesson Finch would take to heart and to her grave, delivered by a nine millimeter bullet from Butch.

"That sucks," he muttered, talking out of turn because he was one of the few people Mr. Cobblepot allowed that privilege. "I liked her. She was good at her job."

"Yes, a shame," Mr. Cobblepot agreed with a sigh like he was genuinely upset she'd proven herself so unable to follow the simplest instructions.

He would send for Wesker shortly and Wren figured the man might be given enough time to explain himself. Which meant he'd probably bring up Wren's involvement and lack of oversight on Nygma's activities.

"Mr. Cobblepot," she said softly, unable to control the shake in her voice, but powering on all the same, "I assume partial responsibility. You gave me direct orders to attend to Mr. Nygma any time he returned to the lounge and instead of questioning what Mr. Nygma's special request was, I allowed Mr. Wesker to assume my duties for me."

No bullet for her, since she was admitting to her own involvement.

"And why, Wren, did you allow that?" he asked, stepping toward her, close enough that if he chose to pull the dagger they all knew was sheathed inside his cane, she could be gutted in seconds. She hoped that if he did pull it on her, he chose to drive it into her chest or neck so she could have a relatively fast death.

"Thrush was late for her shift and I was covering her tables for her until she arrived in addition to my own. One of them was very rowdy and I decided to prioritize calming them down over Mr. Nygma's needs."

"You understand that that was a mistake?"

"Yes, sir."

"And if I allow you to continue to have the privilege of working for my organization, will you be able to make better, more appropriate decisions in the future? Be honest with yourself."

She didn't answer right away, taking a moment to consider how this could go down. For all that it was a waitstaff position and held the threat of death every day, it was probably the best job she'd ever had. Cobblepot took good care of his employees so long as they didn't break the rules and obeyed him in all things. And if he was asking this, he was very likely giving her a second chance to prove herself worthy of that care. A rare thing when it came to the mob.

She had been centering her gaze on a vague point past the Penguin's shoulders. She turned now to meet his eyes and spoke with conviction, "Yes sir. If I am given the name of a guest to attend to personally, I will prioritize them above everyone else, to the exclusion of all others than yourself if necessary. They will be my only concern when they are here."

It was a very harrowing minute and a half that Cobblepot waited to answer her, holding her gaze the whole time. It came to an end when his mouth turned upward and he decided she wasn't worth his scrutiny anymore, "Good. If you fail to do so, you'll be joining Finch. Now, if you would, please head upstairs to see if Mr. Nygma needs anything while I see about Mr. Wesker."

**10:48pm, January 30; The Iceburg Lounge; Arnold Wesker**

He stood now on the landing at the foot of the stairs to the Loft. Wren was coming around the corner from the main floor, tray in her hand with two glasses of white wine atop it. She flowed past him and upwards, moving to the side right at the top to make room for Mr. Cobblepot as he came down.

He stood stiffly, ready to face whatever waited for him. He'd been informed by Thrush that Finch had broken the snitch rule, so there was already a body bag going out. It was entirely possible his would join hers. Still, he felt he'd done the right thing.

"You let someone into the Loft while it was closed. You sat this man at my table. You broke two rules. One of security and one of propriety," his boss said, tone perfectly reasonable, as he stopped in front of him. "Do you care to explain yourself or should I just have Butch shoot you now?"

"I'd like a chance to explain myself, if I may have it," he answered. Hoping that would actually give him one rather than just launch right into it like he was begging for his life. He'd seen Penguin roll his eyes and execute enough people who did that out of pure annoyance and boredom alone.

"Go ahead."

"Following Mr. Nygma's last visit, you told me to fulfill any reasonable requests Mr. Nygma had and record them in the VIP comps log."

"So you took my order to provide him with reasonable food service requests and... felt this was a reasonable request?"

"You didn't specify it was only for food service, sir. Use of the Loft for private parties is not an unreasonable request, particularly when the party consists of one person and there is no reason to expect undue damage to the room."

That got a chuckle out of the Penguin, "Alright. That covers the use of the room. And the use of my table?"

"That... was more of a... guess, sir," he admitted, gulping and wetting his lips nervously. "The manner in which he requested use of the Loft indicated he had... he seemed very familiar with how it is when it's shut down despite there being no records of his visits in the security log. With your orders regarding his off the record VIP status, I thought it likely he'd already been your personal guest. And your personal guests are allowed at your table for short periods."

Penguin tilted his head, as if curious. He could just make out the action from the corner of his eye, not daring to look up from where he was staring at the spot the wall met the floor and both met the stairs. He wasn't afraid of confrontation normally, but the man before him decided his life or death and usually when his attention was on someone in Wesker's position, death was the final outcome. If he really was giving the case just made fair consideration, Wesker didn't want to seem disrespectful and screw himself over.

He wasn't sure if he should be relieved or worried when Cobblepot finally let out a soft 'mmmm' and turned away from him to make his way back upstairs. It was definitely a dismissal and he took it as such, returning to the bar to continue his shift. But he was left with a snake of fear coiling around his stomach and squeezing very tightly while his fate remained in limbo.


	6. Chapter 6

**1:07am, January 31; 805 Grundy; Edward Nygma**

He collapsed into bed as soon as he had his door locked and his coat hung. He hadn't been home for close to six hours. He'd never spent so long at a bar before and he'd never stayed out so late at one, either. He'd been expecting Wesker to come get him and tell him to leave whenever Penguin got back to the club. But nearly three hours passed with him left to his own devices in the Loft before Wren came upstairs and asked if he needed anything. Followed very shortly after by the Penguin himself.

A glass of wine for both of them was brought up and after Penguin spent about ten, maybe fifteen minutes catching up with the staff - presumably about anything that might need his attention - he'd joined Ed for what he'd called a nightcap. So Ed had the unexpected pleasure of sharing a glass with Penguin and making idle conversation. He had fully expected to be dismissed inside of a half hour.

But one glass became three, and that half hour bled away into two.

They hadn't talked about anything of importance, Penguin leading the conversation. He inquired after Ed's friends and the paperwork. Ed was honest in saying he was just working out a new budget and that the guys were good. He got another of the soft chuckles when he brought up their complaint about the prices. 'Ambiance is expensive' he was told and the topic shifted again. To questions about his job and what he did for fun besides hang out at bars with friends from work. He didn't press for information or GCPD secrets, nothing like that. He just seemed genuinely curious what exactly being in forensics meant. As with most people he had only a vague understanding of the processes, theory, and practical applications involved with the field.

Ed hadn't expected the time to fly so quickly, nor to feel so relaxed in the Penguin's company. But any tensions and worries had drained out of him by the time Butch came upstairs to let his boss know he was heading out for the night and Gabe would cover closing. Gotham's liquor laws allowed alcohol to be sold as late as three AM, so the place still had a few hours of business when that happened. But it did effectively draw their time together to a close since Penguin had other things to attend to.

He laid there, fully clothed still, hands folded over his stomach, and grinned. It had been one of the best nights out he'd ever had. Time with the guys was fun, but... This odd sort of secret friendship he'd somehow struck up with the Penguin was so much more exciting. If it could rightfully be called a friendship. He still wasn't sure where he stood with the man beyond perhaps being a curiosity not yet worth disposing of.

It was well known, after all, that the Penguin had no friends.

Butch Gilzean was the closest to that. He was Penguin's most trusted man, second only to Penguin himself. Victor Zsasz came in a close third because the assassin gave his priority and loyalty to the current King of the Underworld. But he could still be bought if someone somehow came up with enough money to get him to turn and a good reason to do so. So far that hadn't happened. Butch, however, was in it for life.

He wondered if Penguin and Butch ever spent a few long hours just talking. They probably did. Butch had a casual way of speaking with Penguin that didn't carry the mix of fear and respect everyone else directed at the Crime Lord. He talked to him like he as just another person. One he had to obey, sure, but also like he had no fear of reprisal or punishment for talking back and voicing a disagreement.

He turned to glance at the clock, not feeling tired at all. He had no energy to get up and do anything but his body refused to even consider sleeping while his thoughts raced around and around, circling back through the night, on repeat. A broken record of the mind.

He needed to go back again.

Maybe the next night?

Wait. No. The guys were going to hit the Dizzy Anchor, some new bar that opened near the docks, and wanted him to come. It was going to be the first impressions night for them. See if it was any good and worth coming back to and that meant they all needed to go so they could decide together.

They really liked having him around.

His smile turned bittersweet. He'd managed to figure out the budget, but it was going be real tight. He'd have to curate his food purchases to only the essentials for cooking himself dinner and making breakfast at home. He could cut costs further by making his own lunch and taking it in everyday, but sometimes the guys bought him lunch so it was never a sure thing which days he'd need to make his own or not.

If an emergency bill under five-hundred came up, he'd just have to forgo going out with the guys for a week or two to cover the costs. As long as that wasn't a regular occurrence, they wouldn't think he was subbing him. If one more than five-hundred came up, he could dip into his savings. He didn't have much, but a couple thousand was enough to work with for anything he could foresee potentially being a problem.

He could do this.

**9:20am, February 3; Greg's Autobody; Greg**

"Yeah, your radiator's shot. Ain't really your fault," he said, letting the hood fall shut as the lanky guy in glasses rocked nervously from one foot to the other. "The temperature dropped a lot further than usual. Couldn't have seen that kind of freeze coming. But the tubes in the heat exchange are ruptured. The only thing you can do at this point is replace it."

He felt bad for the guy. The car was in good condition otherwise and well-cared for. Just a bout of bad luck.

"How much will that be and how long will it take?" he asked, clearly trying not to sound worried.

Greg shook his head, "I gotta call around, see if anyone has the part for your model. Labor's gonna be at least four-hundred, but could be higher depending on if we gotta lift it or not. Which I won't know until we get the part. And cost of the part... radiators ain't cheap. Anywhere from two-hundred to seven-hundred."

The man took a deep breath. No one liked being told they were going to have to shell out that much. He understood the worry.

"And how long?"

"Depending on where I gotta order the part from, probably five days. You can leave it here and we'll call you when it's done." He started moving to the computer, "I'll get you an estimate after I find the part. You can decide then if you want us to do it. Lot storage is waived if you do, and twenty a day if you don't."

He felt bad for the guy. But business was still business.

**8:17pm, February 4; The Iceburg Lounge; Edward Nygma**

Public transportation was a joke.

He'd been heavily, and quite seriously, debating with himself about just selling his car to a junker and freeing up some money each month by no longer having to pay insurance on it. His attempt to get from the body shop to work, then work to home, then home to work the next day, work to home, and finally home to the Lounge convinced him the cost of repairing and keeping his car was worth the headache. It basically ate up all his savings, but what had been a half hour drive in the morning rush had been a forty-five minute pain in the ass on the way in and somehow an hour and a half nightmare on the way out. There was no way he could deal with that on a daily basis. His anxiety would rocket through the stratosphere if he tried.

So it was that he arrived at the abnormal (they weren't supposed to go out on Mondays) meet-up, late and more disheveled than he'd have liked. Choi had called him a couple times already to make sure he was really on his way. He didn't know why they'd insisted on the Lounge tonight. The Tap Room was closer to work. He could have walked there. Not only that, he wouldn't have had to go home and change to just to meet the dress code.

Wren greeted him again, her arm slipping into his and giving him pause, "Mr. Nygma, so good to see you so soon. Your friends have a table already, if you'd like to join them?"

He blinked at her, glancing down at where she was holding him. She followed his gaze and started to pull away, "I'm sorry if I presumed too much familiarity, Mr. Nygma."

"No." He stopped her, free hand reaching out to keep her from breaking the connection as a smile fluttered into life, breaking his melancholy, "You're fine. It's fine... Unexpected I am, shocked you will be. I amaze and astound, and sometimes confound. What am I?"

Wren's reaction was the one he was used to when a riddle spilled from him and others didn't expect it. Her going still, staring at him, brows scrunching...

"Give up?" he asked. "It's-

"A surprise!" she answered at the same time, a grin lighting up her face. "Right? Unexpected, shocked, amazed, astound, and confound are all synonyms for surprise."

She'd gotten it right.

"Yes," he said, a little breathless. "That's right. I um... I was just... surprised. By this." He patted her hand where he held it to his elbow.

She continued to smile, and looked down demurely as she firmed her grip, locking elbows with him once more, "Well, you're my favorite customer, so..."

"I am?"

"Mmhmm," she nodded, glancing up at him once again before tugging at him to start leading him through the room. "Just don't tell anyone, okay? Jealous customers are a nightmare in this business."

"Okay."

He wasn't really paying attention to where she was leading him, but the loud shouts of his name from Dougherty and a strong slap on the back brought him back to reality.

"Make moon-eyes at the staff later," he joked, dragging him away from Wren and down to sit next to him. "We got a surprise for you."

Wren gave him a wave that he returned, getting a fair few whistles and kissy noises from the guys as she left them. He blushed and tried to deflect the teasing, "A surprise?"

"Yeah!" Kowalski slapped a stack of tickets onto the table. "March Madness. Round one. March 21st. Center court line. Eight rows back. All six of us."

A loud round of cheers went up from the rest of them and though Ed had no real care about sports, the fact that he'd been included was enough to get him laughing right along with them.

The joy was short lived, however, when the man continued, "Yeah, yeah. I know. I'm great. I got a friend who works at the stadium so these came at a discount. But I still need you assholes to pay me back. Seventy-five each. You got two weeks to ante-up."

Another bill to pay. But it was only seventy-five and it had been made in good faith so he could come to the game with them. And none of them knew about Ed's car yet. He'd bring it up later. Now was not the time.

"Oh come on Ed, don't make that face," Flass drew him back to the conversation. "I know it's not anywhere as exciting as that bird hitting on you, but at least look like you care."

He sputtered and laughter followed. His attempt to deny any flirting on the part of Wren was cut short by her dropping off his drink of choice and giving him a wink, "Sounds like you're celebrating, so first one's on the house tonight."

The guys went quieter than he'd ever heard them and they waited, mouths pressed shut, a couple with fists covering them to hold it all in, until Wren was lost in the crowd and Ed had finally dared to look up from his drink. And then what felt like pure chaos erupted. Dougherty wrapped an arm around his neck and dragged him down to knuckle at his head while the others reached over to slap him with more laughter and shouts of 'you sly dog!' and 'fuck yeah' and 'you better get after that' and more that was drowned in the heady excitement of it all.

**10:20pm, February 4; The Iceburg Lounge; Edward Nygma**

The guys were finally breaking the party up and heading home. Flass had already left, as had Choi. Dougherty was too in the cups to drive and a taxi had been called for him. Jacobs was about to go into work. So getting a ride home with any of them wasn't happening. And he couldn't afford a taxi of his own. He'd just have to catch the bus on it's last round of the night, then walk the four miles from the nearest stop on that line to his apartment.

He slipped away from the table and up to the bar. It was crowded, but he found a spot on the end near the door he knew led to the kitchens and back rooms. The guys had convinced him to try asking Wren out before he left. They were certain she was into him. He wasn't so sure, himself. She was a waitress and he'd seen her flirt with other customers. It was a way to get better tips and make them feel important.

But they'd made him promise to give it a shot.

Mr. Wesker broke away from his other customers to come lean up on the other side of the bar from him, giving him a warm smile, "Mr. Nygma. Is there something I can get for you? Wren said it sounded like you and your friends were celebrating."

"No, thank you. I'm good on drinks," he started, then glanced around, then leaned in himself in a conspiratorial manner. "I have a question about, um... about Wren. Do you... do you think she might... like me?"

"You're her favorite customer," Mr. Wesker said, but hissed in a warning breath, "If you're asking if she likes you in a general, friendly way, then the answer is yes. She thinks very highly of you. But if you're asking if she's into you in a she-wants-to-date-you way? No. Sorry to disappoint if that's what you were hoping for."

He was disappointed, and it showed, but he shrugged, "Honestly, I figured that was the case. But, the guys were saying she was flirting with me and-"

"Oh, she was," Arnold interrupted, causing Ed's head to snap up and look at him in confusion.

"They were getting handsy." Wren announced her presence as she slipped herself between Ed and the wall and joined the little circle of stage-whispering. She rested a hand on Ed's shoulder and rubbed it lightly, "I'm glad I caught you before you left. I wanted to apologize for not telling you what was up. It's just... I've found that if I flirt with one of the guys in a group like that, the rest will leave me alone because they think their friend will have a chance at scoring. It doesn't always work, and for those times, I can call in a bouncer. But if we can keep it from coming to that, it's a lot better for business."

He nodded along, still feeling hurt he'd been used. It was tempered a bit, however, by Wesker's reaffirmation of her earlier statement, "So... I'm really your favorite customer?"

Wren laughed and shook her head, "Rest assured, Mr. Nygma, if I was somehow the only one on staff and this place was packed and I was over-worked and at my wits end... if you walked through the door I'd drop everything else to come take care of you."

"Oh... thanks. I mean... I'm... I can't even afford to tip extra or anything."

"It's not about the tips. You're just a really good customer and always have been. The staff likes you."

"Okay." He didn't know what else to say to that. He didn't usually get compliments like that from the other places he went to or ordered from on a regular basis. His favorite Chinese place constantly complained about his picky eating and regularly 'forgot' to fulfill his requests to remove certain offending vegetables from his meals. He'd even been banned from a couple restaurants for continued attempts to help them improve their menus and business practices. It had been a while since that happened, though. He'd learned to keep his thoughts to himself on those matters. Though he really couldn't understand why they'd taken such offense.

He blushed and looked down at his hands, eyes falling to his watch, "Oh! Shoot! I have to go. The last bus is going to be here any minute."

"Oh... uh," Wren frowned and cringed, "Actually the last bus came by ten minutes ago. I walked Sparrow out to make sure she got on safely."

His expression must have been as devastated as he felt because Wren bit at her lip and then offered, "You know what? I can give you a ride. My shift is almost over. I'll just clock out early and I can drop you off wherever."

He turned to stare at her and was met with a kind smile, "I mean it."

"You... you won't get in trouble?"

She shook her head for a second, then paused and considered, "I might get written up for leaving early, but you were my last table and I don't have enough time on my shift to take another. I'll be fine."

"I don't want you to-"

"I'll be fine," she reassured, grabbing his wrist and squeezing lightly. "Let me get my stuff and I'll meet you at the door."

She left before he could continue to protest.

When he turned back to look at Wesker, the man shrugged, "Like I said. Favorite customer. Have a good night, Mr. Nygma."


	7. Chapter 7

**7:50pm, February 9; The Iceburg Lounge; Edward Nygma**

After Monday's 'Celebratory Drinks' for Kowalski scoring such good seats, the guys collectively seemed to decide they weren't going to hit any other bars for the rest of the week. It had thrown their schedule off and apparently they needed a week off to 'recharge' and 'burn off the excitement'. Frustratingly, however, Flass had still hit Ed up for his weekly payment. To cover the tab at the Lounge, he'd said. On top of that, the bill for his car ended up being close to twelve hundred.

And to make matters worse, his landlord had sent a notice of rent changes. Since his lease was renewed in March every year, bill changes were negotiated in February. The previous year rent had gone up by fifty a month because of changes in the market. This year his landlord was wanting to raise prices by another one hundred and fifteen. When he'd gone down to talk to the man in a fit of panic - there was no way he could cover that, utilities, other bills, and food on the budget he'd already worked out - his landlord had apologized, but said that loft-style apartments were en vogue and he already had eight offers for twice as much on three empty units. More profits meant more money for renovations and blah blah blah.

Bullshit was what it was.

The man was just a greedy bastard wanting to capitalize on the housing trend while he could and screw his tenets that had been there for years.

With a week like that, Ed decided to head out on his own to try and de-stress. Not that the bus ride to the Diamond District helped with that, but the lights of the Lounge coming into his view as he walked the two blocks from the stop to the club brought a sense of peace to him. Like all his troubles would melt away inside those walls.

He knew, in the logical center of his brain, that this reaction was entirely based on the sense of importance the staff was carefully trained to cultivate in their customers via the personalized experience of grandeur they catered to. But it didn't change that he felt it.

He'd picked Saturday night to come out instead of Friday because the VIP Loft would be open to the public. Saturday nights were the only nights anyone who hadn't reserved the room could come up and see what it was like to be one of the important people. Well, if they didn't sneak up there the way he had that first time.

Getting inside meant waiting to be allowed entrance in the line that snaked down the block. He figured with the kind of crowd there was, he'd be in line for at least forty minutes. People were only being let in a couple at a time as others stumbled out or left for other venues on a bar crawl or in a party posse. There was a guy on staff who walked up and down the line and indicated who could come in next while the rest had to wait until they got to the front of the line. He tended to pick the really glamorous looking people and those in fashion and make-up that stood out. Ed wore his best suit, of course, but it was a far cry from the people being pulled. This whole line thing, wasn't how it was handled during the early part of the week, but it being a Saturday, they were packed by default.

Strangely, however, the man curating the line pointed to him as he passed and said to head inside without so much as second glance. Ed, and the people around him, all looked to each other, not sure if they'd understood that right. Ed clearly wasn't dressed to stand out, nor did he really look the part in any other way. The woman next to him raised an eyebrow at him and he shrugged, murmuring, "Maybe he was pointing to you?"

She raised her hands in confusion, "Maybe? But he wasn't really that clear."

"It was kinda at the wall between you two," the man in front of him offered. "Maybe he thought you were a couple?"

"Oh!" Ed laughed nervously, "We should uh, probably clarify that we aren't if that's the case."

The woman shrugged, then grabbed his arm, "Who cares if he thinks we're a couple if it gets us inside faster? It's cold out here. Come on."

He let out an awkward squawk as she yanked him out of the line and started to drag him along. He caught up after a couple stumbled steps and a quick jog to match her pace.

"No offense to you hon," she said, leaning in and smiling like they really were together, "But as soon as we're in, I don't know you and I don't want to know you."

"Un-understood," he stammered, doing his best to keep up with her quick pace.

Sure enough, when they got to the door, the bouncer let them in without question. The woman broke away after they got about ten feet in and the crowd could hide their parting from outside eyes. So it must have been their luck that the line manager thought they were together. Alone neither were anything to talk about, but as a 'couple' they had probably seemed just odd enough to be interesting.

He pushed his way through the crowd in short bursts of speed here and there, the mass of bodies shoving him from side to side while he attempted to weave his way to the back hall. The line there was just as packed as the rest of the main hall. And it took what felt like another twenty minutes to get himself to the stairs and up them.

Eventually he even made it through the upper hall - now brightly lit and dazzling as the light bounced off of polished marble walls, art deco doors, and extravagant black and white crystalline wall fixtures that hung for no other purpose but to be there. The crowd in the hall was a mingling mass of people trying to see and be seen. The lucky few who'd managed to stake a claim at the one of the tables were zealously guarding their privilege by never getting up despite whatever invitations those walking around were making. It was pretty much standing room only.

Ed managed to make his way to the railing and found barely enough space to get a short breather before the mass jostled him with those coming and going. He was getting a sense that coming up there had been a bad idea. He'd wanted to see it, but hadn't realized it'd be an even worse press than the main floor. At least down below he could have grabbed a table made for two and been left in relative peace to people watch.

He tried to center himself and straightened up, taking a more thorough look around. Figure out if he should try going back the way he came or attempt to make it to the service entrance and get downstairs via that exit. A third option presented itself when he realized that there was one table still unoccupied. The one he'd shared with Penguin. No one seemed to be going near it, but there also wasn't anyone blocking it from being taken. No security. Nothing. Just an empty booth with a nice bubble of about six or seven feet of distance the crowd maintained in clearance.

How perfect!

Now to just... make it there.

**8:03pm, February 9; The Iceburg Lounge; Arnold Wesker**

He'd seen Mr. Nygma pushing through the crowds and had tried calling out to him, but hadn't managed to be heard over the noise. The bar was busy and there were four of them behind it to keep the drinks coming as fast as possible. It only helped a little.

He scooted along to the end where he could squeeze his way out and to the back room. The birds were flocking in and out of the doors to catch a breath and get some relief before returning to the fray. When he spotted Wren, he grabbed her arm and pulled her to the side, startling her and the others around her. He knew he was about to get slapped by a half dozen of the most capable security the Lounge had - despite airs put on in front of the guests, every last bird was a trained in one form of martial art or another.

"How many tables do you have?" he asked, breathless and urgent.

She did a quick mental count, each bird having more tables on Saturday than they usually did the rest of the week, "Uh... eight? Maybe nine if someone's already grabbed the last one in the pit."

"Find someone else to take them," he ordered, looking up at the others and pressing his lips together, "Mr. Nygma's here. I don't know where he's gone, I lost him the crowd."

Wren's demeanor changed immediately and she turned to the girls, "You see him, you spread it as fast as you can to me. Raven, Jackdaw, can you take my tables?"

The two nodded in the affirmative and he headed further in, "I'm going to let the Loft staff know, too."

**8:08pm, February 9; The Iceburg Lounge; Wren**

She skirted through the crowd, quietly pulling aside each bird she came across in turn, asking if they'd seen Nygma. Many of them didn't know what he looked like so she had to take time describing him. It was slow going but between all of them she was given a slightly chaotic map of a man who seemed very out of place making his way into the back hall to join the restroom lines.

Getting back there wasn't easy. She could use her status as a bird to get people to step aside a little faster, of course. But with the Saturday crowd that didn't give her much more freedom of movement than usual. In the hall she asked if any of the customers had seen a man matching Nygma's description. Eventually she got a positive response from one of the women.

"Yeah. I think so. Pretty sure that's the guy I came in with," she said, shouting to be heard over the noise.

"You don't know for sure?"

"I didn't get his name. We were in line next to each other and the guy pointed to the both of us. Thought we were together, I think."

"Where did you last see him?"

"Right after we got inside. Why? Is he in trouble? He do something?"

Wren shook her head, "No. Nothing like that. One of our... VIPs wants to talk to him. Said they're friends from work. We try to accommodate our VIPs with reasonable requests, you know?"

"Oh. Well, in that case, good luck."

"Thanks!"

The smile she'd plastered on fell as soon as she turned away. Her eyes scanned the area again and fell on the line heading up to the VIP Loft. It was as good a guess as any.

**8:08pm, February 9; The Iceburg Lounge; Arnold Wesker**

He hurried up the stairs, slowing down to a sedate pace once he was in visible range of the customers in the Loft. Despite the press of customers, everything in the Loft was done in an unhurried manner. As if they had all the time in the world to enjoy themselves and not a scant few hours once a week. He nodded and smiled at everyone he passed, politely requesting a chance to move past them as he crossed the ten feet to the bar.

He tried to scan the crowd as best he could, but it was just as easy to lose track of someone there as it was anywhere else.

When he got to the bar, he made his way behind it and Rockhopper greeted him with a smile while leaning in to murmur in his ear, voice edged with a threat the rest of her body didn't betray, "You're not supposed to be up here. You aren't a penguin chick."

"I'm aware," he whispered back, playing at the friendly greeting to all outward appearances, "But one of Mr. Cobblepot's favored guests is here and we can't find him. I wanted to give you a heads up and-"

"Shit. Hold on," he was interrupted as Rockhopper's eyes went hard and looked out into the crowd which had started to quiet down.

He turned to look at what was causing the sensation and the panic he'd felt earlier was renewed. He'd found Mr. Nygma. But Mr. Nygma was currently walking past the invisible line that everyone understood existed and going to sit down at Mr. Cobblepot's private table. And now he was setting his head down on his arms.

"Okay, you aren't supposed to be here, but I need to take care of that," Rockhopper shoved a cloth into his chest as the rest of the sound in the room died away completely.

It took a second for him to respond, grabbing her arm far tighter than he should and shaking his head, his words hissed out, "No! Do nothing. I'll take care of this."

He pushed the cloth back into her hands, took a deep breath, and headed out from the bar through the crowd that now easily parted for him. Wren caught up to him in his trek, coming from the guest entrance to the room. She was maintaining her composure far better than he was. Somehow she made their hurried pace look casual and her smile like everything was normal. As if this man, dressed in a seventy dollar off the rack suit using Mr. Cobblepot's table as a head rest was an everyday event.

They arrived at the table at the same time.

Together, they spoke, "Hello, Mr. Nygma."

**8:09pm, February 9; The Iceburg Lounge; Edward Nygma**

Getting through the crowd had taken less time than on the main floor, but it had still been stressful. The utter relief he felt when he hit the bubble of privacy was enough that when he finally sat down, he let himself collapse a bit, his head falling into his arms where they crossed on the table. Finally, that sense of peace he'd been seeking settled over him.

He was interrupted... well, he wasn't actually sure how long after he sat down it was, by a soft chorus of hello that seemed loud in the room for some reason. He lifted his head and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. Blinked a couple times. Then grinned brightly and sat up straighter, "Wren! Mr. Wesker! Hello!"

Wren stepped closer and perched herself on the edge of the booth, reaching out to rub his back, "I know it's not your fault, Mr. Nygma, but I'm a little hurt you didn't come find me when you got here. I could have found you a wonderful table downstairs where you could watch the show. Saturday night is when we have the live shows. There's a new act debuting tonight, even."

"Oh, sorry," he apologized, looking up at her. "I actually wanted to come see the Loft tonight. I've never seen it in all it's glory before, you know? All lit up and filled with people. I think I miscalculated a bit though." Something he didn't really enjoy admitting out loud, but he'd never gotten a sense of judgement from Wren so far. "When I thought of it being full, I didn't think of it being _this_ full. But fortunately, this table was empty. I know Mr. Penguin likes to sit here, so I assume it's for him. Does that mean he's here tonight?"

He really hoped it did. He hadn't been thinking about seeing him until just now, but it would make the whole endeavor more than worth it.

"No," Mr. Wesker answered, stepping forward with a nervous smile, "He's... he's not here right now. He doesn't usually use his table when the public is here."

"Oh." How disappointing. But probably sensible. And begged the question, "Does that mean I need to move?"

For this, Wren turned to Wesker and Wesker took a moment to cast a discreet glance toward the rest of the room. Which... now that he was paying attention to it, was eerily silent and staring at him.

"Oh dear. Did I... I should go, shouldn't I?"

"No," Wesker said firmly, smiling and shaking his head, "Not at all. In fact, I was just coming over to see if you wanted your usual. Or if you'd like to try something different. The Loft has it's own drink menu of specialty cocktails that we only serve here."

Ed wasn't sure if he should take that at face value or not, but after a second's thought, figured Wesker's judgement in the matter was probably safe. He'd be the one to know for certain if there'd be trouble for him being there.

Wren stood and leaned in to kiss his cheek, "I'll go get that menu for you, Mr. Nygma. You can decide after you see it." She walked off, the crowd parting for her and a murmur running through it.

Ed felt suddenly very small and under far too much scrutiny. He ducked his head and kept his eyes down so he didn't have to see the unwelcome stares.

He was startled a moment later as Mr. Wesker's voice called out very loudly to the room at large, "Is there a problem?"

The noise in the room returned to normal like the thunder clap hitting seconds after a lightning strike, and out of the corner of his eyes he could see the people quiet suddenly finding each other far more interesting than some guy sitting alone in a booth at the far end of the room.

**8:12pm, February 9; The Iceburg Lounge; Wren**

She arrived at the bar to get the drink menu and was immediately met by Rockhopper stepping into her space and giving her a greeting peck on each cheek, smile wide as a mile, while whispering in a very panicked voice, "What are you doing? You're going to get yourself killed."

"It's Wesker's call," she returned, shaking her head and giving a laugh like everything was fine. Just a couple of birds saying hello and catching up for a moment. "My orders are to see to Mr. Nygma's needs. His is to decide what comps and privileges are reasonable."

"Yes, but if Mr. Cobblepot is in a mood..."

"I'd rather he mad at me for _doing_ my job than for _not_ doing it," she laughed again and gave a quick wave of her hand, while stepping back. There was only so much time they could spend arguing before it became obvious that something was decidedly wrong. And at the Lounge, nothing should ever go wrong. Not publicly.

Rockhopper returned the wave and turned back to her customers at the bar who, once Wesker made a point of addressing the room, immediately tried to start gossiping with her about the man at Mr. Cobblepot's table. She said nothing, deflecting questions expertly as Wren retreated.

Everyone stepped aside for her now, making her job easier while Mr. Wesker crossed her path in the opposite direction. He stepped behind the bar like he belonged there and began cleaning glasses to help out while he waited for Mr. Nygma's order to be placed. A pleasant smile on his lips.

She wondered how sick from nerves he was going to be later for making that call. She was already on the edge of having to rush to the restrooms and empty her stomach. But she couldn't show that. Especially now. None of the customers could know that this wasn't perfectly acceptable or normal. That would make things even worse.

Mr. Cobblepot having a mysterious guest allowed to sit at his table was far less of a scandal than his staff being willy-nilly with who was allowed to do what. That could be called a mutiny. A threat to Mr. Cobblepot's power. This had to look like it was something he'd authorized to all outside sources. And to as many inside ones as possible, as well.

"Mr. Nygma? The menu," she said to catch his attention before perching herself once more on the backrest of the booth and resting a hand on his back. He reacted well to light touches like that. He thanked her with a smile, any concern on his part completely erased. Took what he was being given at face value.

She realized as worry coiled in her gut that she'd started to... like him. As a person. If he got shot in the face over this, it was actually going to hurt.

God damn it.


	8. Chapter 8

**4:00am, January 10; The Iceburg Lounge; ?**

An hour after close, after all clean up had been done and the majority of employees had gone home, the floor staff - birds, chicks, and bartenders - gathered in the middle of the main floor, arrayed in a semi-circle before Penguin. Behind him stood four of his enforcers and Butch. He was smiling, chuckling.

"You just will _not_ believe what I heard when I arrived tonight," he started, shaking his head and laughing like he'd heard the funniest joke. "Someone... one of the common rabble... decided to sit at my table."

His hand pressed against his chest, "What a joke, right? But that's not the punchline. The punchline is that he didn't get kicked out immediately. Oh, no! Apparently, two of you - and I haven't heard who yet, because this is just what I heard from Butch, who overheard it from some of the guests who were gossiping about it..."

Another shake of his head and a laugh, "So! Two of you... decided to play along. And serve him. He got drinks. And... I don't even know how this happened... but apparently the kitchen was reopened for him so he could have a... sandwich of all things. A basic, meat and cheese sandwich. Being served at the Iceburg Lounge."

A short pause to get out another chuckle.

"WE DON'T SERVE SANDWICHES HERE!" he screamed, red in the face and all pretenses dropped. A shuddering breath was sucked in, his nostrils flaring. "And we _don't_ reopen the kitchens after they close! Seven is the cut off!"

His wild eyes looked over the assembled staff. Whatever was said here wouldn't go past them. It couldn't.

"The _only_," he seethed, "good thing to be said is that none of the guests thought this was a pair of you mocking me. You manged to save _some_ face."

A hand raised with fingers pinched very close together, "Just a little. We'll write that on your graves. Did the bare minimum. Saved a little face."

He gave a wordless growl and snarled, grabbing the nearest chair from where it sat upside down on a table. The furniture was tossed by a leg to the side, it's crash and crack as it broke against the floor echoed through the room.

"So!" he grinned murderously at his staff, "Who's responsible?"

Wesker and Wren stepped forward as the rest of the staff stepped backwards. In unison, they accepted fault, "We are, sir."

Penguin's eyes narrowed and he stalked forward. He choose to push into Wesker's space first, looking up at the taller man with a fury that had broken lesser spirits. His voice when he spoke was the very definition of calm neutrality despite the anger he was clearly feeling, "I want to make sure I'm understanding this correctly. You authorized someone to sit at my table. In public. During the busiest night of the week. And you re-opened the kitchens to get him... a sandwich."

"Yes, sir," Wesker answered. He looked like he wanted to say more, but thought better of trying.

Penguin's gaze snapped to Wren and he moved to her, "And you... you served this man drinks and the meal that Mr. Wesker authorized?"

"I did, sir," she replied, also keeping her answer brief.

Penguin sucked his cheeks in, then opened his mouth in an audible pop. He turned around and walked a few feet from them, then spun on his heels and smiled. He shrugged his shoulders, "You're not dead yet because I want to know who this man was and where he is now. So I can go kill him personally."

"He's at home," Wren answered, rushing her words out before Wesker could speak. "I drove him home a little after one."

"You... you drove him home," Penguin asked, looking completely astounded. "And why, pray-tell, did you leave during your shift to drive this man home?"

"His car is in the shop until Monday and he missed the last bus of the night."

"I authorized her to do so, sir," Wesker added.

Penguin laughed again, leaning his hands on the table he'd cleared so violently moments before, "You authorized it. You do realize you are a _bartender_. Not even the head of staff. You are so... _so_ low on the totem pole around here... What madness possessed you to think you could do _any_ of that?"

Wesker gulped and cleared his throat, "You authorized me to, sir."

"I did?" He turned to share a look with Butch, who was just as baffled as he was, looking at Wesker like he'd grown a second head. Penguin lifted a hand, getting ready to signal his men to shoot.

"Yes, sir. And by the way," he rushed out, clearly trying not to sound desperate, "Mr. Nygma said he was very pleased with the quality of the food."

Penguin's hand stilled. The staff couldn't see his expression clearly from where they stood. They couldn't see anything except their boss standing there for several long moments before his hand slowly dropped. His head tilted to one side. Eyes sliding back over his shoulders, which had straightened just slightly.

"...he did, did he?"

Wesker gulped again and nodded sharply, "Yes, sir. He expressed disappointment that he had yet to find the time to come in during normal service hours so he could try some of the more elaborate dishes. But he was quite satisfied with the turkey and swiss with hot mustard on sourdough the kitchen put together for him on such short notice."

A short span of silence followed, and Penguin's eyes slid away, downward to his cuffs, as he let out a soft 'mmmm'. He shifted his weight and turned his body a fraction so he was more or less looking to Wren in the same manner he'd just looked at Wesker, "You said his car is in the shop?"

"Yes, sir. Until Monday."

"...did he... did he have a good time, do you think?" Penguin asked clearing his throat and finding non-existent wrinkles to try and fix by tugging on various parts of his suit, followed by smoothing certain sections along his arms out.

"No question, sir," she answered, a smile parting her lips as she took a tentative step forward. Butch straightening up stopped her from getting more than a couple inches. But she didn't lose her smile as she continued, "He was very sad to have left without the opportunity to see you again. I offered to pick him up tom- today, now... for lunch. If you'd prefer, I can call him and let him know I won't be able to, of-"

"No, that's fine," Penguin's head came up and he looked forward, keeping his back firmly to the staff gathered behind him. "No need to wake the gentleman up at this ungodly hour." He cleared his throat, "What time... did you say you'd be picking him up at?"

"One thirty, sir."

Another soft 'mmm' and a slow nod followed. After a second, he sniffed loudly and walked away. Butch watched him in obvious confusion, but followed a moment later, waving the enforcers to come with.

After they were gone, a collective breath was let out by the entirety of the gathered staff. Wesker let himself collapse slowly to the floor while Rockhopper rushed to Wren's side and grabbed her in a fierce hug. The rest milled about, talking to each other in hushed voices. A few moved to take care of the broken furniture.

None of them were quite sure what they had just witnessed.


	9. Chapter 9

**1:30pm, February 10; 805 Grundy; Edward Nygma**

Technically, Wren picking him up so he didn't have to take the bus wasn't the same as having someone over. But also, technically, she was coming over and as far as he was aware there was no set minimum of time a guest had to be inside a home to count as 'being over'. So if he invited her in to wait while he got his coat - and he did - he could, by technicality, say he'd had a friend over.

Because she was his friend.

She'd given him two rides home and offered to take him into the Lounge for lunch on Sunday afternoon. And that was the sort of things friends, did. Helping each other out and go out to eat together.

"You have a lovely home, Mr. Nygma," she said, looking around as she stood just inside the door.

"Please, it's Edward. Or Ed," he replied as he gathered up his gloves and scarf, then checked his pockets for the essentials: wallet, keys, notebook, pen.

Wren opened her mouth and shut it slowly, biting at her lower lip. She looked, for the first time, shy and uncertain, "You don't even know my real name, you know."

"That's okay," he shrugged, doing a final pat down of his pockets. "I mean if you're not comfortable with using mine, I understand." He whispered over-loud as if sharing a big secret, "I don't like using Detective Flass's first name and he's my friend, too."

"Right," she laughed, the sound coming out oddly, right before she spun around and grabbed the door to open it, "I just... I'm used to calling you Mr. Nygma, Mr. Nygma. It feels weird to use anything else."

He stepped through and held the door open for her, then locked it behind them, "That's fine! Just fine!" He didn't want to upset her or push her away. If she wanted to call him Mr. Nygma, she could keep doing that.

"So I was thinking, since you drove me home and are doing the driving today, I could pay for lunch. For both of us," he offered while they walked downstairs and to her car. He really couldn't afford it, but he didn't want her thinking he wouldn't pay his fair share.

She tucked her arm into his and led him along to where she'd parked, not too far from the building entrance, "Don't be silly, Mr. Nygma. Today is my treat." She leaned in to talk to him in the same conspiratorial stage whisper he had upstairs, "Employees get one meal a day comped. We can just split something and no one has to pay."

Ed felt a laugh of disbelief bubble up out of him. He'd never done anything like that. Share a plate with a friend, not take advantage of a policy. He'd taken advantage of plenty of loopholes in policies. Particularly at work.

**1:44pm, February 10; The Iceburg Lounge; Oswald Cobblepot**

He wasn't the sort to pace. He didn't shift nervously from foot to foot. But there was a lot of excess energy bottled up and it felt like it was building with no where to go. If it kept up like this, it was perfectly possible he'd explode.

"How long did it take her to get back last night," he asked Wesker for perhaps the twelfth time in the last half hour.

"Approximately forty minutes, sir," was the answer. Same as before. He repeated himself to the letter. "I assume that means it's roughly twenty minutes there and twenty minutes back, barring traffic."

He checked his watch, good leg bouncing a few times before he pushed himself up and straightened the silverware on the table. Adjusted the plating. Decided it was shit.

"This won't do!" he barked, taking the place setting and throwing it at the floor. "Bring something better!"

Wesker turned tail and rushed downstairs to grab another setting - he'd already had to replace three others - Oswald yelling after him, "AND CLEAN THAT UP!"

After he was alone again, he sucked in a deep breath, his hands pressing against his face, pulling down. This man... this... odd-ball of a man... was driving him nuts. He hadn't been able to keep him out of his mind since the long conversation they'd had the previous week. He'd spent the time between going about his business and found himself wondering what Edward might think about something or other at the worst times. Ended up completely distracting himself. At one point almost to the detriment of a business deal involving a small arms shipment. Nothing that would have slowed him down had it not gone through, but it caused enough of a problem that he had to acknowledge there was a problem.

Clearly the problem lay with the other man. But in what manner, Oswald wasn't exactly sure. In the few times they'd spoken the most he'd done was try to be friendly. Which meant he was likely a plant of some sort. Someone he needed to watch and keep close so he could figure out who sent him.

A strange pick for a plant, though. Not even trying to hide he worked for the GCPD. Completely open body language when he got excited about a topic. So either he was an extremely talented actor... or he was being used. Maybe whoever sent him was trying to get Oswald to let his guard down enough that Edward could start wearing a wire around him.

That seemed the most likely. Very few people could fool Oswald with their intentions after that many encounters, no matter how short. So the man was probably being used as a patsy of some sort. Which meant that Oswald had time to manipulate him. Try to weasel it out of him by gaining his trust. Get him to turn on his patron willingly.

Considering the so-called friends Edward hung out with, it was probably Leob pulling the strings. That group had nothing in common with the forensics specialist outside of being part of the GCPD. He'd had his own plants at Central look into all of them discreetly. They shared no interests, nothing to bind them. From all reports, Mr. Nygma had been working there for years without any contact with them and all of a sudden, starting in mid-December, he'd somehow become their new best friend.

The only thing it added up to was that Edward was being used by them, probably led by Flass, on behalf of Commissioner Leob. But he'd need to confirm that, not just act on the assumption.

He let his gaze drift to the table and reached out to push a fork a fraction of an inch so it lay properly straight on the napkin. Wesker appeared at his elbow and put another place setting down to replace the first.

When the man stepped back, he locked his arms behind himself and cleared his throat, "Mr. Nygma has arrived, sir. Shall I ask Wren to bring him upstairs?"

"No," he said, shaking his head and hurrying to the railing to look down. "Wait a moment until they've ordered drinks and are looking at the menu."

He couldn't act like he knew Nygma was coming. It had to seem like a casual coincidence that he was just now having his own lunch. He licked his lips, fingers curling and uncurling, and went to sit down again. He hated having to wait so much.

**2:13pm, February 10; The Iceburg Lounge; Edward Nygma**

Even though Wren had said not to worry about the drinks, he still decided a water was the better call. She also let him have the menu so he could choose what they were going to split. Since she'd already tried it all and he hadn't.

He was just about to the point of being ready to make a decision when Mr. Wesker approached the table, "Mr. Nygma! So good to see you again so soon. I wasn't aware you were planning on coming by."

"Wren invited me to lunch," he answered, looking to her with a smile.

She grinned back, then reached out to poke Wesker in the side, "It's my day off, you know."

"Of course," the man laughed. Then he cleared his throat, "But uh... Well, I do apologize for interrupting your friendly little date here, but... Uh, you were asking after Mr. Cobblepot yesterday,.."

Ed blinked at him, not sure what that had to do with anything, "Yes, and?"

Mr. Wesker laughed, looking surprisingly nervous, "Well, you see. Mr. Cobblepot is here. Today. Right now. If you wanted to go talk to him, he's said he wouldn't mind the company for lunch. Should you be inclined to join him."

"Oh. Oh!" Ed couldn't help the big, opened mouth grin that took over his face, "Really? He wants me to... really?"

Mr. Wesker nodded, "Yes, sir. I can take you to him right now."

"Oh that would be-" Ed cut himself off and his face fell, his gaze turning to Wren and then back to Wesker. He gave a weak smile, "That would be great, except I'm here with Wren and-"

"It's fine, Mr. Nygma," Wren interrupted. "It's not often someone gets invited to eat with Mr. Cobblepot. It's a real privilege. You should take the opportunity."

"But you-"

"You can make it up to me," she shrugged, leaning across the table to rest a hand on his wrist and rub it in a soothing motion, "After you get your car back tomorrow, why don't we meet up here and go somewhere for dinner? You can drive this time."

He was torn. He wanted to go and see Penguin, but he didn't want Wren to think he didn't care about her friendship either. "Are you sure? I don't want to-"

"I'm positive," she reassured him. "Please. When you see me tomorrow, you'll just have to tell me all about it, okay?"

He bit at his lip and nodded, then let out an excited laugh and clapped his hands, "He wants me to join him!"

Wren drummed her own hands on the table to match his clapping, "I know! So get going already!"

"Right!" He pushed himself up a bit too forcefully and the water spilled. Thankfully he was pulled away by Wesker before it could cause a very embarrassing wet spot. "oh! I can take care of that!"

"It's okay, sir!" Wesker gripped him a little tighter and edged him backwards so he wouldn't knock into anything more. "The staff can take care of it. We really shouldn't keep Mr. Cobblepot waiting."

**2:24pm, February 10; The Iceburg Lounge; Oswald Cobblepot**

That man was a disaster. An absolute tornado of clumsy as he stood up from his seat and had to be guided away. He chuckled softly to himself and despite being alone, covered his mouth to hide his smile.

It didn't take very long after that for the sound of Wesker leading Nygma upstairs. Oswald pulled himself together and put on a welcoming grin as he came into view, "Mr. Nygma. What a pleasant surprise seeing you here today."

"Mr. Penguin! Hi!" The man's face scrunched up in excitement as he hurried over to shake Oswald's offered hand and slide into the booth opposite him. "I can't believe you remembered me."

"How could I forget? It's not everyday someone trespasses twice just to try and talk with me," he answered back, leaning his elbow on the backrest and his chin on his hand. "And one who's so good to the staff, too. Very few customers are so well thought of."

Wesker brought the second place setting to the table as though it hadn't been planned in any way.

"Have you had lunch here before? I've only seen you in the evenings, after the restaurant side shuts down."

Ed shook his head, "No. I usually can't make it in because I work until five most days. And with the dress code, I have to go home and change. If I left right from work, the earliest I could get here with everything is probably just after six. And that's assuming good traffic. Which, being rush hour, is not a good assumption to make. But last night, Mr. Wesker was telling me about what the kitchen usually serves in the evening and it all sounds absolutely amazing and-"

"You were here last night?" Oswald interrupted, trying to wrest control of the conversation back into his hands. "I didn't hear about that."

"Oh yes!" Ed lit up. He crossed his arms and leaned forward on them. "I was my first time coming on a Saturday night. I'd seen the Loft a few times when it was shut down, but I thought it might be fun to see it when it was open."

Wesker brought over the wine and poured it as someone from the kitchen brought up the appetizer. Oswald slid his own glass across the table to the other man, then took the second. He maintained a face of placid interest while Ed looked positively overwhelmed. Like he'd just been offered wine from the hand of God.

Excellent. If Leob was trying to use Edward's 'hobby' to his advantage in getting him close to Oswald... Oswald could do the same. Get him close and keep him close.

Ed picked up the glass and glanced over, grin the giddy sort as he cautiously took a sip. Like he couldn't believe this was happening and was expecting the wine to slapped out of his hand at any moment while people jumped out of hiding to laugh at him for thinking he had the right to be there.

"I uh... If no one said anything about me being here," he started after a second, more confident drink, looking rather sheepish, "Then I think it's only right to tell you I... I uh... I have legs, but never walk, carry food, but never eat. I'm round and square and oval and beside you when you sleep. What am I?"

This wasn't the first time Ed had thrown out a riddle at seemingly random. Their first long conversation, he'd done the same. It happened when he was nervous or on edge. Or excited. As before, this one seemed related to the topic at hand.

"Table," Oswald answered, taking a drink of his own. Previously, Ed had said 'give up?' and given the answers before Oswald had a chance to speak. It had given the distinct impression that the man was used to no one trying.

From the way his face lit up, Oswald was certain that was true.

"Yes! Table!" he laughed and gestured at the table, "I sat at your table." His face fell a second later, "I hope that's okay. They said it would be fine, but if no one told you..."

"Oh, no, friend," Oswald reassured him, reaching out to put a hand on one of Ed's. The man froze, eyes wide and unable to look away from where he was being touched. "I was informed a VIP was allowed the use of my table. Perfectly normal. I just I wasn't informed that VIP was you."

"V-VIP?" Ed stumbled over his own words, gaze following Oswald's hand as it released his own and slid back across the table toward it's owner. From there his eyes followed Oswald's chest upward to his face, where he was smiling his warmest, most pleasant smile. "I'm a..."

He couldn't seem to get the word out. His mouth moving around the letters for a good minute before he shook his head, "Why?"

Oswald gave a slow, languid shrug, "Because I said so." He didn't give Edward time to process that further, however, as he straightened up and gestured toward the stairs, "Ah! Finally. Lunch is here. I hope you don't mind, but I ordered for both of us. I was in the mood for duck."

Ed, in a daze, turned to follow the gesture and then the food from where it was carried in and placed in front of him. He looked completely out of his element and remained that way for the first few bites. But Oswald found victory in the fact that the man eventually started to grin again and make small talk. Much of it riddled with riddles.

He'd just have to get used to that, he supposed.


	10. Chapter 10

**8:10pm, February 14; The Iceburg Lounge; Edward Nygma**

VIP. Very Important Person. Not just important. But Very Important. Capital V. Capital I.

A VIP.

At the Iceburg Lounge.

Because Penguin decided to make him one.

It was great. It was amazing. It was spectacular.

It made no sense.

None.

Granted, Penguin had indulged him in some idle conversation and had seemed more amused than mad at his trespassing. But that couldn't be enough to be deemed a VIP. He wasn't powerful in any way. Didn't have any connections that Penguin couldn't get access to far easier than he. His position didn't usually put him in contact with mafia related crimes since his focus was homicides and specifically the very weird ones. About all he could offer Penguin was intelligent conversation. Which, to be fair, was probably the most intelligent he'd had in some time. But as much as he was certain the man valued intelligence, he didn't seem to prioritize it among his underlings. Certainly not enough to make someone like Ed a VIP.

There had to be something else going on there.

Unless he was just a curiosity for the Crime Lord. A passing fancy that would eventually be forgotten about and dropped like so much waste.

That was... well, a very depressing thought. He definitely hoped that wasn't the case. He just didn't have enough pieces to puzzle out what else it could be.

These thoughts circled around in his head at every free moment, and in theory he understood that Penguin currently favored him, even if it frustrated him to no end that he couldn't pinpoint exactly why. If he had been able to, he'd have a sure fire way of remaining in his favor.

It wasn't until the Thursday after their impromptu lunch that the reality of the situation struck him, however.

The guys were going out, of course. The after-work outings back on track again. They'd planned on hitting The Tap Room, but there was a shoot out that very morning and the place was destroyed. So their fall-back, because somehow it had become the fall-back despite the expense, was the Lounge.

They were becoming regulars as much as Ed was.

Which gave him a sense of dissatisfaction. He'd sort of started thinking of the Lounge as his place. Not theirs, as a group. But his. An entirely unfair line of thought since the Lounge belonged to no one but Penguin. But still, he'd found a semblance of sanctuary there.

Had, guiltily, spent every night between Sunday and Thursday up there enjoying Wren's company while he nursed a free drink or two at a small table off to the side. Allowed to completely occupy his other friend's time without repercussion. It was nice.

When Flass clapped him on the back and said there'd been a change of plans, he'd taken it in stride. Then Flass told him what those changes were and he felt a sudden heavy weight settle in the pit of his stomach. Instead of enthusiastically agreeing, he gave a 'I'll see if I have time, lot's of work today, what with all the homicides' and a laugh. Flass didn't seem to think anything of it, which Ed was grateful for. Then felt guilty for feeling that way. And then mad at himself for feeling guilty.

In the end, he had to admit he just didn't want to share his place with them. He felt special there. And less special when they were there with him.

He almost didn't go. But the guilt ate at him. They were his friends and he hadn't been out with them for over a week and they'd made sure to let him know they wanted him along that night.

When he met them there, they were hanging out a few feet away from the entrance, milling about. He joined them, confused about this, and got a groaned apology from Choi.

"All of us forgot something, Ed," he hissed, a mix of disappointment and embarrassment on his face. "It's uh... Thursday."

"Yes, that's right," he agreed, not following how that was a problem.

Flass cleared his throat, "The fourteenth."

"Yeeesss," he drawled out, still not seeing the problem.

Kowalski coughed, sniffed loudly, wiped at his nose, and grunted, "Valentine's Day."

"Why would that be a-" he stopped, twisting about to look at the entrance. "Oh."

"Yeah. Reservations only," Flass shook his head. "And Kristen's gonna kill me, too. _Shit_. I should have been at her house already and I... I thought it was next week."

"Do you... do you need a ride there?" he offered, uncertain.

Flass shook his head, "I don't know if that'd even be a good idea right now. I told her I'd gotten reservations to a great place. And I did. But it's on the other side of town and we should have been there an hour ago."

At one time, Edward would have said he didn't know what Kristen saw in Flass. But now that they were friends, such thoughts were entirely uncharitable. Especially as he knew that despite being a terrible person in a lot of ways, Flass was good to his friends and seemed to actually care about Ms. Kringle.

"I'm gonna let you figure this one out," Choi said, "I should stop by a store and grab some flowers for my old lady. We didn't have plans, but you know how women are."

He said his goodbyes and left. A couple minutes later, Dougherty and Jacobs did the same. Flass was still mentally kicking himself for a few minutes before he, too made his goodbye, cursing under his breath.

Ed felt bad for him, he truly did. But he also had a moment of satisfaction that at least this night, his place remained his. Well, not that he could go in or anything. But well, he hadn't had to share it.

He turned back toward the door and waved at the security guard. The security guard waved back, then waved him over. He hesitated, but wandered toward him after a moment.

"Yes?"

"You planning on going in, or should I tell Wren to give your table away?"

Ed straightened up and tilted his head, "My table?"

"Yeah. You taking it tonight or not?"

His mouth fell open and then snapped shut with a grin, "I am. Yes. I am. Should I just...?"

The guard grabbed the door and pulled it open for him, "Have a nice dinner, Mr. Nygma."

"Thank you," he answered, meandering inside and feeling very important indeed, "I will!"


	11. Chapter 11

**?, February 19; Federal Bureau of Investigation, Gotham Office; ?**

"You're certain of this?

"As positive as I can with there being no physical evidence of the debt. But that's the usual M.O. in these cases. His finances have taken a steep and sudden dive and it started shortly after he and his friends started visiting the Lounge. The bank records we pulled have shown that his checks used to be deposited in full and he had a small amount in savings that he added a little two each month. As of mid-January, one month ago, he has, instead, cashed half his last three paychecks. His savings account is all but gone. He's cancelled four subscriptions and has received late notices on three bills, and his frequency at the Lounge has increased to the point that he's going nearly every night. None of his friends have experienced a similar problem.

"It's circumstantial, but it's also pretty text-book for someone indebted to the mob."

"I understand that. That's not what's being questioned. What's in question is that while we have a nearly perfect timeline and evidence chain of him repaying a debt and being pressured into repaying it on Cobblepot's schedule, what we don't have is any clear evidence of what the debt actually is and what it was spent on. His finances should have taken an upward turn before the dive, or there should have been a single large payment made to someone, or even evidence of a gambling habit of some sort.

"There's nothing. All investigations into Nygma show he's a standard case of lonely young professional with no outside hobbies or influences. And despite being part of the GCPD, his hands are probably some of the cleanest. No bribes taken, no bribes offered, the worst he's done is try to do the previous Medical Examiner's job one too many times. And even that I can't blame him for considering the M.E.'s track record."

"Our man on the inside says he's constantly getting expensive drinks and occupying the time of one of the waitstaff. Maybe it's not a big debt he's repaying, but a little one. Guy like him, one that's never had a girlfriend, finally having the attention of a beautiful woman thrown at him... Maybe he's just spending more than he has to keep the fantasy that she's really into him going."

"If it was him wasting his money like that, we wouldn't be having this conversation. Or are you forgetting that our agent also said that he doesn't pay for anything. That Cobblepot or someone Cobblepot trusts, has put him on the VIP list."

"Standard mob tactics-"

"In other cities and with other crime families. Not with Cobblepot. He doesn't reward someone with special treatment while also draining their money dry just to get a few extra thousand for a couple months. Which, realistically, is all Nygma's going to be able to give him at the rate he's bleeding out. It doesn't add up. None of it. So if we're going to have a chance at convincing Nygma to testify against Cobblepot, we need to be certain of what the situation actually is.

"I don't want circumstantial evidence right now. I want hard proof we can use. By all accounts, Nygma's a good guy. Weird, a little on the creepy-awkward side, overeager to do his job, but otherwise forgettable. Use that. Get close to him or one of his friends, and find out what's going on."

"But-

"No. Just do it."

"... Okay. Should I have our agent try to get in his good graces at the Lounge?"

"Only if she thinks it's safe to try. Even if the waitstaff isn't directly involved with Cobblepot's criminal dealings, we don't want her losing her cover over a more senior staff member thinking she's trying to replace her."

"I'll let her know to use her best judgement."

"What about Nygma's friends, any luck there yet?"

"No. Flass is as dirty as they come, but he's one of Leob's top guys. We can't get close to ask any prying questions without drawing too much attention to our agents and sending a hundred red flags through the system. Leading theory is they've decided Nygma could be useful to their operation and are laying on the charm so he starts rolling in the mud willingly."

"Any chance of getting a plant into their group just to be sure?"

"Give it a few months and maybe. They're very closed off. Only invite someone new to get drinks with them once in a blue moon and only if they've done something to catch the attention of one of them."

"How'd Nygma get on their radar, then? He's been at Central for years and nothing until this past, what was it?"

"December. About a month or so before Nygma started having problems with money. Related only in that it got him to the Lounge for the first time. Nygma was never a barfly before he started hanging out with Flass's group."

"No chance Leob's men set him up?"

"Nah. Leob and Cobblepot have a mutual understanding. They avoid stepping in each other's business so business stays good. They don't like each other, but neither want to stir the pot enough to start something. They've established a very clear line so they can avoid crossing it."

"Alright. So, how did Nygma catch their attention?"

"That's still being determined. There's a surprising amount of rumors about that floating around Central. Nygma's largely forgettable, but was often joked about. Quite often by Flass's cronies. Now they defend him if anyone but someone in their group decides to say something off-color about him. It's gotten people talking. Just not enough to get anything definitive."

"Continue working on that, but don't make it a priority. Anything with Leob is GCPD Internal Affairs' concern, not ours."

"Anything come in yet from the bugs in Nygma's place?"

"Nothing usable. The guy listens to the radio, tells himself riddles, narrates what he's doing here and there, usually when cooking, and will sometimes go over case notes aloud. Nothing incriminating and nothing related to whatever's going on with him and his finances. We've only had the bugs in place for a few days though. Give it time, I'm sure we'll get something. We always do."

"I know. I just wish it would be enough to put Cobblepot away. We were so close to getting a break on Falcone and Maroni with their war starting to escalate... and then this freak comes along and destroys them both and forces us to start over from scratch. A good two decades of investigation and work on our end and it takes a little less than a year for Cobblepot to make it next to worthless. I really don't want to have to put in another decade to take him down."

"All we need is a single break. Capone got taken down for tax evasion."

"If only we could be so lucky."


	12. Chapter 12

**9:10am, February 21; 805 Grundy; Edward Nygma**

"Please, Mr. Nivens," he hurried to follow after his landlord as the man headed for the next door on the floor, "I've been a tenant since I moved to Gotham and I don't think it's overstating anything to say I've been an exemplary one. And I fully understand the market changes and property taxes mean you have to increase rent every so often, but I feel a hundred and fifteen more a month is just too much of a burden to put on your current residents and-"

"Mr. Nygma," Nivens interrupted, giving a frustrated sigh, "We've had this conversation already. You have seven days to sign the new lease agreement. Otherwise, I'll need you out by the fifteenth. That's a good twenty and more days to find another place if you feel the cost of living here is so unfair."

When he opened his mouth to protest, Nivens continued, "And if you attempt to have this conversation a third time, you not have the option of signing a new lease agreement. I am not in the mood to indulge this further. I have other residents to speak to."

Ed's lips pressed together and he had to force his hands to relax at his side where they'd curled into too-tight fists, hard enough that his short nails dug angry red furrows into his palms. He examined them to avoid glaring at his landlord and figured they'd probably be sore for an hour but were fine otherwise.

Once he was back in his apartment, he started grumbling to himself and pacing the length of the floor.

"Seven days to sign. Oh, yes. That's entirely reasonable. Give us notice of changes during the shortest month of the year and don't be open to negotiations because you're too greedy to care about giving anyone time to actually find a new place or not."

He seethed for a bit more until the fight and anger drained out of him. He had nothing to spend it on and was largely resigned to the reality of his life at the moment. He'd have to find a new apartment. Three weeks wasn't much time, but at least he had that long to try.

"Alright. Today's plan. Get to work. Pick up paper at lunch. Check listings. Go back to work. Head to the Lounge. Get dinner there and make some initial calls. Try to set up some tours for Saturday and Sunday. I'm sure there are plenty of good buildings with rates that are more in my budget."

Satisfied with the plan of action, he forced a smile and readied himself to go.

**5:21pm, February 21; The Iceburg Lounge; Edward Nygma**

Settling in at his table - one of the larger booths on the main floor that, during his first few visits, were always cordoned off with a 'reserved' sign - he pulled the paper he'd acquired at lunch out and scanned over the listings again. Wren brought him a drink and sat down next to him. She curled in against his side, one arm resting on his shoulder so she could run her fingers through his hair. The other laid so her hand was resting on his forearm while he leaned forward over the paper and made notes in his notebook.

He'd gotten very used to her being so tactile across the last couple weeks. She was a physically affectionate person, he'd found. Something he'd never really experienced before. And while he understood it probably looked quite sexual from an outside perspective - certainly the guys took it that way the one time they'd walked in to find her keeping him company in that matter before joining him for the evening - it was as far from that as possible. She had a girlfriend. She'd been very clear she wasn't interested in him 'carnally'. She just liked to touch.

"I ordered dinner for you," she said as she got comfortable, leaning her head towards his and looking down at what he was doing. "Rib-eye with a red-wine mushroom sauce. Roasted green beans and red potatoes to compliment. And..."

She darted forward to bite at his earlobe, tugging it playfully just enough to draw his attention away from the paper and to her, "you haven't said hello yet. What's up?"

He lifted his head and turned, her ploy working to break his focus for a moment, "Oh. Sorry. Hello." He set his pen down and pushed his glasses up, giving her a smile. "My landlord is increasing the rent on my apartment, so I'm looking for a new one. I'm hoping to find something nearer to work, too. When I first moved to the city, it was to finish my degree at GCU. So I got a place close to my campus. I'd managed to get an internship at Wayne Research Group, before it was folded into their Biotech and Medical divisions, that gave me a full ride scholarship so long as I moved to the city and agreed to seek employment here. It was part of an educational revitalization effort since so many STEM collegiates were moving away after graduation."

"Oh yeah, I remember hearing about that," she said, giving a short laugh. "My mom wanted me to apply for it, but it would have meant going into some stuffy area of study I had no interest in. They didn't have those sorts of scholarships for English degrees when I was going for my associates. General ones, sure, but..." She shrugged, whatever she'd felt about it at the time had long left her. "Besides, I ended up having way more fun and making a lot more money at Pandora's Box. At least for the first couple years. I kind of miss it some times, but I get better compensation here and any extra 'talent' training I want to pursue gets paid for so long as I can convince Mr. Gilzean it's worth the effort."

Ed settled his chin on his hands. They'd had quite a few conversations about hobbies and interests outside of work, Wren's girlfriend, Ed's failed love life and the beautiful Ms. Kringle who he pined for but could no longer justify attempting to get the attention of because she was happy with Flass and Flass was a friend and going after a friend's girl was wrong and all that... But this was the first time Wren had brought up her schooling or previous jobs... or even what she did at the Lounge that wasn't just serving drinks.

"Talent training? That sounds interesting," he decided to lead with that before asking about Pandora's Box. He'd heard about the club, of course. More than a few crimes had been committed there and at least one of them had been a murder. He'd never been inside and the murder wasn't one he'd taken part in investigating since the club operated out of a spot on the north island, far from Central's jurisdiction.

"Oh, yeah," she grinned, face lighting up. "I haven't told you about that? Gosh, that's one of the best benefits of working here. See, Mr. Cobblepot wants the Lounge to be a 'singularly unique experience'." She spread her hands, quoting the line often written on what few advertisements the club put out. "Part of that is ensuring every member of the service staff can offer more than just quality service. Like... We have a girl, Dove, you haven't met her, who's about three hundred fifty pounds. When she auditioned, most of the other candidates were making fun of her for her weight and were sure she'd be laughed out of the room by Mr. Cobblepot himself. It's kind of a thing that he prefers the birds to blend in, be as much a part of the scenery as the tables and chairs, until we're needed. And most people assume that means we're meant to blend in with each other."

She reached over and picked up his drink, taking a sip before she passed it over to him, "But what it really means is that we have to be able to go unnoticed until we're needed. Size doesn't count towards that. Anyway, she did decently enough during the interview with Mr. Penn and had enough experience with serving tables at small diners that she could reasonably do well at the job. Not a difficult feat, most candidates make it through the preliminary part of the audition process. But then!"

And she got really excited, biting at a lip and turning to face him, her hands becoming quite animated, "She gets in front of Mr. Cobblepot and he asks her if she has any talents. He does this with everyone. He doesn't suggest talents for them to have or direct their thoughts one way or the other. He just asks them if they have any and if they do, to show him. So she says yeah, she does, and asks if one of the security guys could come over and help her.

"Mr. Cobblepot sends Butch up. He stands there for a second while she gets in front of him, then she grabs him by the head," Wren was laughing now, "And pulls him down to knee him in the groin. And when he's doubled over, she pushes him on the ground and... I kid you not, she sits on him. And tells him to 'try and get up'. He starts struggling to push her off and she reaches over and flicks his ear. And keeps doing it until he finally tells her he gives up."

She's barely able to breath through the laughter at this point, but does her best to finish, "And she just looks down at him, all unimpressed, crosses her arms, and says 'that's what I thought'. Mr. Cobblepot hired her on the spot. She was one of only two people to make it through that round of auditions, too. Right now, she only works Fridays and Saturdays and when Mr. Cobblepot needs extra security for a private party. He's since paid for her to take classes in more traditional martial arts and small guns. I think she'll be learning large guns in a few months, after the semester is over. She's working on a degree in nursing."

"So... talents is just... whatever might be useful for the job?"

"Oh yeah. Or make the experience for customers interesting and different in some way. Like, anyone named after a songbird can generally sing and do so decently, but it's Canary and Lark that are concert-trained."

"That means you can sing?"

She nodded, "Sure can, but it's nothing like them. My personal talents are in being seductive and discreet."

"And," he drawled out, "...you used to work for a sex club."

Wren let out an exaggerated fake gasp, "Mr. Nygma! I am shocked and appalled by that accusation. The Foxglove is a sex club. Pandora's Box is strictly a BDSM club. Sex was never on the menu for my clients. A lot of spankings, though."

Ed blushed and looked down. That was an area of life he hadn't really looked into outside of a few articles he'd read here and there when the papers decided to run something on the more scandalous side to drum up business and get people talking.

Wren settled back against him and leaned in to nuzzle his cheek, teasing him, "You're so cute when you're red like that."

The conversation largely devolved from there with her teasing him some more until it was time to grab his meal from the back and bring him another drink. She did ease off once he was eating and again after, allowing him to make the calls he was wanting to make, dropping opinions about the listings he'd circled and which ones sounded better than others. By the end of the night, he'd managed to arrange for four tours along the weekend. If he was lucky, one of them would work out.


	13. Chapter 13

**7:25pm, February 26; The Iceburg Lounge; Edward Nygma**

He hadn't been lucky. The three places he'd seen on Saturday were abysmal. He could probably deal with being at the second one for a month or two if he absolutely had to while he looked for something more long term, but the building management wanted a six month contract and there was no way he wanted to be there that long.

And the one he'd seen on Sunday! It had been listed as 'cozy' and 'quaint' with an 'excellent view of Robinson Park'. Which meant it was a single narrow room that had enough space for a cot shoved into one corner while the exposed toilet and shower stood opposite, and you got to that end of the 'apartment' by squeezing past the over-sized counters of the galley-style kitchen. The one window at the very end led to a fire escape and it was only when you stood on the fire escape and leaned out to try and see past the corner of the building that you could just barely make out a copse of trees that may or may not have been on the edge of Robinson Park. Management insisted that it was. All that, for the same rent he was already paying each month, in addition to the privilege of having a leaking ceiling that was 'being worked on'.

After he left, he'd grabbed a Sunday paper and scoured the listings in hopes of the expanded sections having something worth looking into. He'd also picked up one of those free apartment and rental homes listings that came out weekly. He'd then spent the rest of Sunday arranging for viewings on Monday. He'd even called into work so he had the day off to look.

Of the next round of apartments, only one was decent enough to even consider and he only had until the first of the month to apply and put a deposit check in. Which meant he wasn't going to get it because he didn't get paid again after the first.

So when Tuesday hit and the guys were talking about where to go, Ed suggested the Lounge. Not because he wanted to be there _with_ them, so much as he wanted to be at the Lounge in general. All his problems seemed smaller when he was there. And maybe talking with the guys about finding a place could help. They might have ideas on where to look or know someone that was looking to rent out a room short term.

He got to the Lounge first and snagged one of the larger booths. Not the nice one that sat behind the reserved sign. That was _his_ and he didn't want to share it. No, just a decent sized booth on the other side of the floor. Wren greeted him with a kiss to the cheek and he ordered a round of beers for the guys so they didn't have to. They'd still have to pay, and he'd have to pay them back the next day, but his drink, at least, remained off the tab. Getting there early meant he could pretend he'd already paid for his in advance and none of them would know he got special treatment and try and ask for him to get their drinks free. He knew he would have if they asked it of him. And he also knew he didn't want to stretch Penguin's generosity by trying. So he just made sure that such a possibility wasn't going to come up.

After they arrived and the initial awkwardness he felt about asking around for apartment hunting help was burned away by three large drinks, the night bled away in a pleasant haze. He didn't tell them he was looking for a new place because he could barely afford to feed himself anymore and that the price going up would mean having to choose between heating the apartment or eating regularly. He didn't want to make them think he was trying to guilt trip them into not having to pay his share. He didn't want them to think he was asking for handouts either. He just said his landlord was being a skinflint and scrooging him, which was true.

Like true friends, they were sympathetic and said they'd ask around. They got into talking about what places he'd already seen and what he was looking for. They even commiserated with him about how shitty they all were. Even knowing he'd have to drop another hundred and sixty or so to Flass in addition to the usual two fifty, he was feeling good by the end of the night. His friends cared about him.

**9:34pm; The Iceburg Lounge; Thomas Choi**

"Hey, that whole thing with Nygma might have just been solved," he said, sliding into the booth with the next round of beers.

"Oh, yeah?" Tom asked, taking two of them - one for himself and one for Ed - and setting them on his side of the table. Jacobs and Flass had just called it a night and left the three of them to finish up.

Choi took a long pull and nodded, "Yeah. Overheard him and that bird that likes him talking. She offered to let him move in with her."

"Holy shit, really? Damn, things must be getting serious."

"Yeah. Surprised the hell out of me. Was pretty sure he'd said she wasn't interested."

Tom snorted, "Eh, you know how women are. They don't know what they want until you tell 'em what they want. And she's been all over him for a while now."

"Yeah. That's true," Choi agreed. "Thought maybe she was just trying to milk him for extra tips or something, myself. But asking him to move in? She's got it bad."

"Honestly didn't think he had it in him."

"To get a girl?"

"To get a girl that hot without paying by the hour."

They laughed and Tom leaned out to see if he could spot Ed coming back and choked on his beer, "Oh shit, I think you're right."

Choi stood to get a better look through the crowd and saw Ed and the bird hugging. He sat back down and held his beer out for Tom to toast, "To Ed getting laid."

"To Ed getting laid and his housing problem solved."

**9:34pm; The Iceburg Lounge; Wren**

"Just for a few weeks, until you find a place," she offered, running her hand down his arm from shoulder to elbow and back again. "We have a fold out couch."

Ed shook his head, "I don't think that would be... It really shouldn't be necessary. And I don't want to intrude on you. Besides, I'm certain I can find a place. I just have to put more work into it. I've only been looking for a few days."

"Yeah, but you don't have that long to find one," she frowned. At this point she'd had to face the fact that she liked Ed. As a person. As a friend. And offering her couch was going far and away beyond the job she'd been given by Mr. Cobblepot. She wasn't even sure it was safe to do so. But she'd already talked to Rockhopper about it and her girlfriend was okay with it. She didn't know Ed nearly as well as Wren, of course, but they trusted each other.

Ed smiled at her, then pulled her into a hug, "Thank you. But I'm fine. Really. If anything, I think I'm probably going to need a storage space more."

She held him tight for a couple seconds and when she released him, she grinned brightly, "That, I know I can help with. Well, Arnie can. Talk to him before you leave and he can ask Mr. Penn for some pricing on storage lots. Get you the 'family' discount."

"Oh... you mean..." he started and she pressed a finger to his lips to stop him.

"You know exactly what I mean. And don't act like you're surprised, either. Lying doesn't become you, Mr. Nygma." She waited to smile until he smiled at her, sheepish. At this point, with his own interest in speaking to Mr. Cobblepot any time he could manage to get even two minutes in the Crime Lord's presence - which wasn't nearly as often as she knew he'd liked - any pretenses of not knowing what sort of friends he'd made could, and should, be thrown to the wayside. And it wasn't like he was bothered by what that meant, either. If anything, he seemed fascinated in the extreme. Excited by the danger. Not so thrilled by the possibility of getting hurt, but not deterred by it, either.

No wonder she liked him.

**10pm; The Iceburg Lounge; Oswald Cobblepot**

"Thank you for your report, Mr. Wesker," he said, leaning back in his chair, but not yet dismissing the man. He knew Wren was growing attached to Nygma. She was good at faking certain things, which was why she was so valuable to him and why he'd picked her to see to the man's needs. She was just the sort to be able to get under a man's skin and make him trust her. But continued exposure to him had seen her lose her professionalism.

He just hadn't realized how quickly it had eroded.

Wesker bringing to him the nature of her request had shed some unexpected light on the matter. It wasn't as though providing a secure enough storage lot for a cheap price would be any trouble, of course. But offering it was outside the bounds of her duties and the expectations placed on her. Particularly when Nygma himself wasn't part of the family.

Officially.

"The loyalty you've shown tonight will be rewarded," he continued after a few more moments of thought. "When you speak to Mr. Penn about the storage units, tell him I said to make arrangements for your promotion to Executive VIP Liaison."

They didn't have a VIP Liaison position at the club. But if Wren was going to start acting outside of her orders, he wanted someone he could trust to monitor what she did. And clearly Wesker was trustworthy in that regard. He'd taken the threat of his own death to heart.

Whether or not Wren was digging her own grave, Oswald had yet to decide. That, he supposed, would have to be determined once he decided what to do about Nygma. So far his people had yet to find anything significant or worthy of note about the man save that he was apparently fairly terrible with his finances. A conclusion at odds with what Oswald himself had seen of him. The night he'd been working out his budget he'd seemed meticulous about it. However, The man who'd gone through his mail said he had a lot of bills that were coming past-due and some other notices, including one for his rent going up.

"Did she mention why he needed a storage unit," he asked just as Wesker reached the door. Just in case it had relevance.

Wesker paused and turned around, hands folding behind his back, "He's moving."

"So it's just a short term request?"

"I would assume so, sir."

He let out a soft 'mmmmm' and waved Wesker off in a final dismissal. Perhaps the problems with money they'd found had to do with the rent change. He'd ask about the move when they next spoke. See if Nygma would be receptive to an offer to lighten the load, so to speak. He didn't know the man well enough to know if it'd be taken in good faith or as an insult. And he would rather not insult him.


	14. Chapter 14

**?, March 7; Federal Bureau of Investigation, Gotham Office; ?**

"We have something. This was recorded Tuesday, reviewed yesterday, and verified and transcribed this morning."

_A series of knocks on a metal surface._

_Loudly: "Just a moment!" Softly: "Wasn't expecting anyone. Who would be coming by this early? Better not be Mr. Nivens. He gave me until the fifteenth."_

_The sound of metal sliding on metal._

_Excited: "Mr. Penguin! Hi! Hello! Come in! Sorry about the mess, I'm trying to get things organized for um... well, you see I'm moving..."_

_Cordially: "Yes, I'd heard. It's why I'm here, actually. Mr. Wesker informed me that you asked Wren about storage units..."_

_"Oh. Yes! Yes, I did." Worried: "Is there a problem? Should I not have?"_

_Reassuring: "Oh, no, no. Not at all. No problem. But no one said anything about how big the space should be or if it needed to be indoors or climate controlled. Or how long it would be. Normally, of course, I'd have Mr. Penn worry about such details."_

_"Of course."_

_"But... as it concerned you and you hadn't mentioned moving when we last spoke, I thought I might take the time to see to it myself and catch up with you."_

_"Oh." A soft laugh. "I didn't mean to... what I mean is, I didn't think it would interest you, Mr. Penguin. It's just a move."_

_"Well, in that case, we should most certainly talk about it. This is a... it certainly seems to suit you. I'd have a hard time imagining you somewhere else now that I've seen it."_

_Nervously at first, then more relaxed: "Well, yes, it's been... really great... but well, the rent is just becoming too much and while I feel Mr. Nivens is being wholly unfair, it is his decision on when and how to raise it. Would you like something to drink?"_

_A shuffle-thump repeated slowly five times, followed by the rustling of some items._

_"Oh, ah, I haven't really gotten to sorting through all that... If you could just..."_

_Some more rustling, then the shuffle-thump again, twice._

_"You have an interesting collection..." A pregnant pause and then an odd cough that could be a laugh. "This... this is a very difficult album to find."_

_"Mmm? Yes. I managed to acquire it last year at a music store that was clearing out it's record and 8-track stock to replace it entirely with cassette and CD. I think they must have changed management recently because they didn't know what kind of gems they had. I got that one and-" A slapping sound, like cards being shuffled, but louder: "-this one. The first was great, because it's the full album. But the single of 'My Mother's Love' is even rarer. It's the extended version that used to play on the radio in the mid-40's, around Christmas. It stopped getting played in the late 50's when stations decided it was too long for the changing format. My only disappointment is that the record wasn't well cared for, so the B-Side skips a minute and twenty-two seconds in. It completely destroys the instrumental version. I keep my eyes out whenever I find a record shop, in case they have a copy that works, but so far I haven't been very lucky."_

_"Yes. Of course. It-"_

"Pause it. Please tell me there's more to this than just them discussing music."

"There is. They talk about the record collection and Mr. Nygma's piano and that sort of stuff for another half hour or so, but, then they get back to the storage lot."

"Skip to that."

_"-be going. Oh. Yes. Your move. When will it be finalized?"_

_"I have to be out by the fifteenth. I was planning on staying here as long as I could since my... my new place... is so much smaller. It's going to take some getting used to."_

_"Will you be doing all the moving yourself? If you haven't found a company to do the packing and heavy lifting, I could arrange for that. Along with the storage unit. Considering the larger items you have, I think I know one that would be suitable."_

_"I hadn't considered a moving company. But you shouldn't have to trouble yourself. I can-"_

_"Edwa- Ed. Please. It's no trouble. I own thirty. Just let Mr. Wesker know what day you need them here and they'll take care of everything. I suggest having whatever you're taking to your new place already out. Then you can leave them to do the rest while you're off at work or doing what you need to get done that day."_

_"That's... Mr. Penguin, I-"_

_"Oswald."_

_"I'm sorry?"_

_"Oswald, please."_

_"Okay. Oswald."_

_"Shall I be seeing you at the Lounge tonight?"_

_"I... Yes. Absolutely."_

_"Wonderful. And why don't you bring a record or two? We can listen while we eat."_

_The sound of metal sliding on metal. Then a loud thump._

"That's it?"

"That's what we have right now."

"That doesn't give us much. But we'll have to clear the bugs out before the movers come. Nygma might not have noticed them yet, but anyone Cobblepot sends in to pack that place up will. Get a message to our agent. We need to know what day he's going to have them over."

"Assuming he does, sure."

"Cobblepot was insistent and Nygma is clearly receptive to him. He didn't sound like he understood the sort of danger he's in. They were talking almost like... friends. That could be a problem. If he thinks Cobblepot is his friend, he might resist our efforts."

"We could put more pressure on him. We still don't know what his money is going to, but we know he's struggling and he's not taking out loans. We could use that. Force his finances to bottom out, imply it's more of Cobblepot's doing, then offer relief in return for whatever information he can give us."

"That'll only work if it's actually Cobblepot taking his money. We don't have anything proving for certain it is."

"We don't have anything pointing to anything else, though. And from what we just heard, I'd say Cobblepot's doing it to indebt him not just financially, but emotionally. Drain him of his own resources, but let him have favors to 'help him out', make him reliant on whatever he gets from Cobblepot just to survive."

"...I can't say I disagree with that assessment. But what use does Cobblepot have for him that he'd go to such effort?"

"Maybe the Leob thing has more weight than we first gave it. Guy's new to Flass' group, hasn't really cemented himself as one of them yet. Still able to be influenced. Get to him before Leob starts offering him protections and payoffs so he looks to Cobblepot first."

"Maybe. It just doesn't fit Cobblepot's M.O. Nothing about this does."

"I know you prefer a longer game on this, but I think we need to move fast. Decide how and if we're going to approach Nygma and do it soon. I think pressuring him financially is the best bet. Even if it isn't, by some chance, Cobblepot taking his money... getting him to his lowest point and offering relief for spying and turning state's evidence will still get us somewhere. We don't even have to implicate Cobblepot if you don't think it's a good play. I think it's our best shot on short notice."

"...I don't like it."

"But you're not saying no."

"No, I'm not. Okay. Do what you have to. Monitor his move, get bugs into his new place once he's there, find some obscure bills or manufacture ones to lay the pressure on. Make him desperate enough he'll sign right up when we offer, or desperate enough he'll do something stupid. Either way I want an opening."

"Yes, Ma'am."


	15. Chapter 15

**3:22pm, March 7; GCPD Central, Parking Garage; Edward Nygma**

"So you see," he concluded, keeping his voice down so it wouldn't echo in the garage and draw undue attention, "I won't be able to go out with everyone for a couple weeks. But once I'm settled, I'll be back on the tab rotation, no problem."

Flass nodded along, leaning against Ed's car, "I get where you're coming from. That's a big expense. And we'll be sad to not have you there and all..." he hissed his breath in, looking up a shaking his head, "But the problem is, you can't miss the payments."

Ed opened his mouth, frowned, shut it, then held up a finger, "But the agreement was that if I can't make it for a week, I didn't need to-"

"Yeah," Flass interrupted, straightening up, his arm laying out across the top of the car where he tapped his fingers on the roof, "That _was_ the agreement. But the guys and me, we're getting a little concerned about how much time you've been spending over at Penguin's place. We get it, you're dating that one bird, so you wanna see her a lot."

He held up his hand to keep Ed from interrupting in turn, "And yeah, everyone likes to take a day or two here and there to hit the Lounge. But... you've been there way more than that. Almost like you're one of Penguin's men. And the guys and me, we know that's not true. But the rest of the precinct don't and they talk and you know... it takes a lot of effort from the rest of us to put those rumors to bed. Don't you think we deserve something for that?"

"Yes, but-"

"No buts, Nygma," Flass stepped in close, his hand coming down heavy on Ed's shoulder. "You pay up, or we start letting people talk. And if that talk gets back to Captain Barnes, you're gonna be out of a job. You don't wanna be out of a job, do you?"

"Well, no, but-"

"What did I just say about buts?" He let out a disappointed sigh and yanked Ed forward, his free hand balling into a fist that connected soundly with Ed's gut.

All the air was pushed out of him so he had nothing with which to make noise when the next punch landed. He grasped blindly for purchase and had his feet kicked out of him so he fell to the ground, one arm wrapped around his gut, the other keeping him from landing on his face. He heard, distantly, the sound of a car door opening, not really registering it. At least not until Flass grabbed him by the back of the coat and held him in place while he slammed the door into his side, connecting with his shoulder and head.

His ears were ringing when Flass let the door fall shut and then hauled him to his feet and pushed him against the car so he was forced to face the man, "Payment's already late. Have it by tomorrow or next time it'll be your arm in the door when I close it. Got that?"

He coughed and nodded, body sliding heavily to the ground when he was released with a disgusted "Good." and a distant "Clean yourself up. You look pathetic."

He curled into himself, allowing his body to fall to the side so he was as small as possible against the cold concrete. Nothing felt broken, but he ached all over and breathing would be painful for a while. He stayed where he was, just trying to be still, until the ringing in his ear faded to a soft hiss that he could deal with. It would take longer to go away. His shoulder when he rotated it seemed to be fine, if sore.

He eventually stood up. There was still technically time in the day for him to return to work, but he didn't feel like it anymore. Instead, he slid into his car and drove out of the garage. He needed to get away from Central. Needed to get away, period.

He only had so much money left. And while losing his apartment opened up a fair chunk of it to be used elsewhere, he had been hoping to free up more for much needed expenses. That... that wouldn't be possible now. Flass had made that more than clear.

The only way to end that would be to eliminate Flass. Or-

No.

"Dammit," he hissed to himself, then louder as he slammed a hand on his steering wheel: "Dammit!" A shuttered breath was sucked in.

If he didn't pay Flass and the others, they'd get him fired. Make it seem like he was one of Oswald's moles. He wasn't, and Oswald had, so far, never come close to broaching such an arrangement during their conversations. But Barnes wouldn't care. Any sign whatsoever, any that could be corroborated, that someone was dirty, and they were out on their asses. He'd made that very clear on his first day. And with Oswald being his top priority to take down...

Ed groaned out a long sigh. This wasn't going to be as easy as getting Guerra fired. Flass, above and beyond his own threats, was well known for having the protection of Commissioner Leob. One of the only reasons Barnes hadn't been able to get enough on him for anything to stick and remove the Narcotics Detective from his position.

It wasn't like Ed had been blind to that. He'd known, but it wasn't an unusual thing for most of the officers and detectives to have dirt under their nails. Even Gordon's partner, Bullock, had been in bed with Fish Mooney before her fall from grace. Figuratively, if not literally. Rumors were never clear on the latter. Not that it mattered.

It just... it hadn't mattered before. Especially after Flass had called him a friend. Had treated him like one. Had... had...

Had lied to him. Used him. Laughed at him behind his back.

Poor, stupid Ed. Can't make friends without paying for them.

Which wasn't true. He had made friends. Gordon was his friend, right? And Wren. And... and Oswald? Maybe?

God, he didn't know anymore.

**9:46pm, March 7; Robinson Park; Wren**

The call from Ed had surprised her. She'd expected him to come to the lounge - he'd been in pretty much everyday for the last few weeks - order a drink, talk about work or his friends or ask after Penguin. The usual. But instead, he hadn't shown up at all. He called the lounge about twenty minutes ago and asked Arnold to ask her to come meet him at the conservatory at Robinson Park.

It was all very suspicious and she figured something had to be wrong. She had a gun on her, but she'd asked Rockhopper to come as back up. If there was trouble, she trusted no one but her girlfriend to back her up. And even if she was being paranoid, Robinson Park after dark was not a good place to be. A lot of bad elements hung out there.

The two of them walked arm in arm, keeping their pace casual, as they wound their way along a main path. It was one of the only ones well lit. It would go right past the conservatory before winding it's way toward the lake and then out the other side of the park.

When they got to the large, imposing building, they found Ed sitting on a bench facing the fountain. He was slumped over, head down, looking like he'd just found out someone he loved had died. Wren exchanged a look with her girlfriend, then hurried over to sit on one side of him. Rockhopper crossing in front to sit on the other.

"Eddie?" she hesitated, unsure if he'd be okay with the nickname. She usually called him 'Mr. Nygma', but they weren't at the Lounge and this was, perhaps, a little too outside her assigned duties. Even if Arnold has authorized her extended break.

She rested a hand on his shoulder while her girlfriend took a chance and started running her fingers through his hair. He didn't react at first, but he didn't pull away or object. It was almost like he didn't even realize they were there. Which, with how his head came up slowly a couple minutes later and he blinked a few times before his eyes came into focus, was probably the case.

"Eddie, honey, you okay?" she tried again, fingers laying softly on his cheek.

"You're making us worried," Rockhopper added softly from her side, drawing his attention to her presence.

He adjusted his glasses and forced a smile for a moment, "Sorry. Was just thinking. Hi. You're... You're Wren's girlfriend, right? I've seen you at the lounge."

"Mmmhmmm," she answered in the affirmative. "You can call me Nina, if you want. We aren't really on the clock right now, so you don't gotta use Rockhopper."

Wren shared a brief glance with Nina, silently thanking her for being so kind without asking a lot of questions. Then she brushed some stray hair from Ed's face, "I never did tell you my real name, did I? It's Diedre."

**9:46pm, March 7; Robinson Park; Edward Nygma**

When he'd called the Lounge and asked for Wren, it had been in a fit of panic. He'd found himself parked outside the club not long after he'd left the precinct with no memory of having driven there. It was almost an automatic response, as if autopilot had kicked in while he analysed every interaction he'd ever had with any of the people claiming to be his friends and somehow his subconscious had determined the Lounge to be the best destination. Something his active brain disagreed with entirely.

He'd pulled away and headed, instead, for the post office. Choosing to take care of a few necessary things he could easily see to. Get a sense of accomplishment out of it. The first stop had been the post office to purchase a P.O. Box and put in a change of address request for it. He used GCPD Central's address as the 'back up' rather than his apartment. Just in case something happened. He then pre-paid six months on the box. He hoped he wouldn't need it that long, but it might take some time to figure out how to deal with Flass and he didn't want his mail service interrupted.

He then went to the library with a stack of mail that had come in across the last month and a half and wrote out change of address requests for the bills he needed to pay and cancellation requests for others. His utilities were going to be shut off in a few days so any final bills would have to come to his 'new' address. After that, he wouldn't have to worry about them at all.

After that, he stopped by an auto parts shop and purchased a few parts he'd noticed where wearing down when he'd had a look under his hood. Usually he didn't bother doing his own maintenance, but part of cost cutting meant he'd need to. Especially as that was where he'd have to be sleeping for a little while. He wasn't sure how long yet and hoped it would only be a couple weeks at most, but until he could find a place in his budget, he would have to put up with the backseat for a bed.

Fortunately the storage issue for everything that wasn't the clothes he'd need in the immediate future was solved. Even if Oswald wasn't the friend he seemed to be so far, he was still providing a place to put his things. He'd gotten the address and unit number from Penguin on Tuesday, when he'd brought over a few records as requested. He'd gone to visit it the day after and paid for two months. Just in case the only place he could find in the immediate future was too small for all his things.

All that had taken enough time for the sun to start setting and then he was left with little to do and no place to go except back to an apartment that wouldn't be his for much longer, the dubious safety of work, the false security of the Lounge, or somewhere else. He'd chosen the last. Picked Robinson Park because he could hang out in the Conservatory until it shut down at nine.

Once it was closed, he found himself still reluctant to go anywhere, but also in need of something. He wanted to talk to someone. He wasn't close enough with Gordon to call him, though he had considered it briefly. All five of the guys were now off his list of confidants. He had entertained asking for Oswald to join him, but that was stretching things even allowing for what time he'd been given. Wren was the only one left.

So he'd called. And Mr. Wesker had said he'd relay the message. And eventually she was there.

He hadn't really expected her to come. Definitely hadn't expected her to bring her girlfriend. Or for both of them to seem so concerned.

He smiled at them both, then leaned into Wren- Diedre's shoulder, shutting his eyes, "That's a nice name. And thank you. Both of you. For coming. I think I just..." He laughed, blinking back tears he didn't want to worry them further with. "I just needed a friend right now. That's all. Nothing important."

"Oh Eddie," Diedre pouted as Nina leaned in to lay herself across his other side, letting her weight settle like a blanket. "Of course it's important. You're my friend."

"And what's important to Diedre," Nina purred into his ear, her arms coiling around his stomach to hug him, "Is important to me. Do you want to stay here, or go somewhere?"

"Stay here," he murmured. The situation felt so surreal and he didn't want it to end, broken by him coming across as more awkward or creepy or odd that so many people in his life had told him he was. "If that's okay?"

"Sure." No more questions came and they got comfortable, shifting around so they could both hold him.

It felt nice. Having a real friend. Maybe two.


	16. Chapter 16

**8:44am, March 9; 805 Grundy; Edward Nygma**

Thursday night with Diedre and Nina had made coming into work on Friday and paying Flass the two-fifty he really couldn't afford just tolerable enough to get through. He played up the apologetic and fearful man Flass expected of him, earning in return a pat on the back and one of those fake friendship platitudes he now recognized for what they were. After Flass had left the room, he let his act drop and seethed to himself, breaking a pencil. He was going to have to put with this for a while, a couple weeks, maybe more, as he gathered information about Flass and looked for an opportunity to set him up. It would be a challenge. Frustrating, too. But the eventual satisfaction would be worth it.

And now he had friends who just might be willing to help him with his new goal. He wasn't going to bring it up to Oswald. He didn't know how much Penguin's friendly overtures were honest or made out of boredom, or perhaps held some further, to be determined, ulterior motive. But Diedre and Nina... Once he had a plan devised, he was going to ask them to help.

It was a decision he came to Saturday, after what could only be called his first 'caper' with them. It was hardly as convoluted as he expected his own plans with Flass would have to be, but they'd proven they were up for the sort of trickery he'd likely need them for.

He was woken up to an obnoxious pounding on his door and loud calls of "Eddie! Eeeeeedddieeee! Are you in there Eddie?" from the two of them. He stumbled out of bed and barely managed to get the door open before the two of them were crowding inside and giving him a hug before making themselves at home in his soon-to-be-not-home.

"Wakey wakey," Diedre called, searching the boxes of clothes he had.

"Eggs and bakey!" Nina finished the rhyme, opening his fridge to inspect it. "...which you do not have. Ugh. First things first, we're taking you to breakfast." She let the door shut slowly and turned on her heel, disgusted at his lack of food.

Before he could protest that his cabinets were bare because of the move, Diedre let out a long 'oooo', standing up with a shirt she'd dug out. It was one he'd gotten on a whim, but had never worn outside of the house because it had far too much shimmer and general glitz with the sequins along the edges of the cuffs and collar to justify wearing anywhere else. That didn't seem to deter Diedre, though, "This one!"

"Oh, oh, I couldn't," he laughed, reddening and hurrying over to try and grab it and bundle it back up. But she held it out of his reach and nodded enthusiastically in response to his shaking head.

"Oh yeah. Definitely this one. Black suit with this under it? You're gonna look great."

"He doesn't have a black suit," Nina lamented, taking up where here girlfriend had left off in digging through the clothes, tossing them everywhere. "Oh! But he has a green one."

"Green works. It'll match the shirt," Diedre laughed and shrieked loudly as Ed lunged for her. She ducked out of his way and jumped over Nina, forcing him to stop lest he, too, tried to hop over her girlfriend.

Nina stood before he could made that decision and held up the dark green suit. It was the muted olive one with black pinstripes he often wore to work. One that looked brown in most lighting. She held it up to him, "Well, it's not as flashy as the shirt, but that'll just make it stand out all the more. It'd be better without the coat, though. Pants and vest only."

Diedre approached, holding the shirt up and yanking it out of reach when he tried to grab for it again, "Yeah. Agreed. Vest and pants with this one. It'll be just a bit of a clash, but we don't have a lot to work with."

Ed held up his hands, stalling for a moment as he took a deep breath and swallowed it. Then adjusted his glasses and reached out, slowly, to take both the shirt and suit. The two let him have it after a short tug backwards and raised eyebrows that challenged him to just try and put the clothes away. With two of them it was a battle he'd lose and he didn't want his dignity to go with... whatever this was about.

"I'm assuming this isn't just to take me out to breakfast," he asked once he had his hands on the clothes and started to skirt around them towards the bathroom.

"Nope," Diedre confirmed, hands behind her back.

"We're going someplace nice," Nina followed up, mirroring her girlfriend's pose.

"Ten minutes," they said together in sing-song.

He was still for a fraction of a heartbeat, then rushed into the bathroom, slamming and locking the door lest they try and follow him in and force him into the gaudy outfit they'd picked out for him.

**10:04am, March 9; Wayne Plaza; Edward Nygma**

'Someplace nice' turned out to be the Gotham City International Motorcycle Expo. And industry show that wasn't open to the public and for which he was most certainly inappropriately dressed. But apparently that was the goal. To make him look just ridiculous enough that, with Diedre and Nina on his arms, the assumption would be he was some private billionaire with a little too much time and money on his hands and no sense of taste whatsoever.

The show wasn't so much for him, though, as it was for Nina.

"I've been wanting to come for years," she admitted on the car ride over. "Never managed to figure out a way in. But when Mr. Cobblepot asked about us leaving, and Diedre told him it was to see you, he wanted to make sure everything was all right. So I jumped in and said you seemed really torn up about the move and just needed a nice day out."

"And that's when she suggested maybe getting on the list for the Expo might cheer you up," Diedre continued as she slowly maneuvered the car around the parking garage of Wayne Plaza to find a spot. "You know, just being able to go to an industry event that you'd have no chance of getting into normally. When he asked if you had an interest in motorcycles, I vouched for you. So remember, if he asks, you like motorcycles."

"Right. Motorcycles," he nodded, smiling.

"And," Nina went on, leaning against his side, "I thought it would be to spend time with you. You're basically my girlfriend's boyfriend at this point, so I should get to know you, too."

That caught him off guard, "I- no! No no no no, I'm not-"

"Oh, not like that," she interrupted, rolling her eyes with a soft 'pfft', "Relax."

Diedre parked the car, shutting it off before turning to face them from the driver's seat as she held out the invitation, "Alright, kiddos. Here's the pass inside. It's for one Mr. Nichols, private investor. Mr. Nichols himself was unable to come. Bad case of broken fingers, so I heard. I'm sure it'll pass. Anyway, Mr. Nichols is, instead, sending you, his son, to look on his behalf."

Ed nodded along, eyes going a little wide a the flippant mention of broken fingers, but otherwise taking it all in stride.

"No one here should know his son, because he doesn't have one. So don't worry about anyone calling you out. Just play the part of rich boy and if you need help with any of the technical stuff, Nina's your girl. No one should pry, but if you get the feeling someone is, give me a nudge. I'll do the distracting and conversation change. Most of the guests should be men and the women from the industry will likely want to avoid a spoiled millionaire with a couple of bimbos on his arms."

"Got it." He committed the instructions to memory, then looked between the two, "Anything else?"

Nina leaned across his waist and opened the door, "Remember to have fun."

**8:09pm March 9; 1544 Cypress Court; Nina Damfino**

She unzipped Diedre's dress and helped her step out of it. The cloth fell to the floor, pooling around her feet. The vision of her, dressed in a leather bodice and thong that had no business being worn under a such a thin, skintight sleeve of a dress, made her smile. A secret just for her.

She wrapped her arms around her girlfriend's shoulders and kissed her hair, lips moving to her ear and then down her jaw. Diedre tilted her head to accommodate, letting out a happy hum as she shut her eyes and enjoyed the affection.

"I take it that means you enjoyed today?" she asked as Nina's teeth started to nip at her collarbone.

"I did," she answered, lifting her head, then nuzzling into Diedre's hair. "You didn't tell me he actually liked motorcycles. When he started in about the engine structure of the HXT Leopard, I almost couldn't keep my jaw off the floor."

"I didn't know. We talked about hobbies and brought it up, but he seemed more interested in what skydiving was like." Diedre turned to face her, arms circling her waist loosely. She bit at her lip, eyes down for a moment, then looked up so she could meet her gaze, "You like him?"

Nina nodded, "Yeah. He's nice. Like, really nice. Not once did his hand stray where it shouldn't. Didn't expect that. You've had shit taste in men before, you know."

"You're gonna hold that against me forever aren't you?" It was asked with good humor. An old joke between them.

"Only a little bit longer. I can be convinced to shorten it, though. But you have to have a very good argument."

Diedre leaned in to kiss her. Slow, a languid affair they'd shared hundreds of times but never got tired of.

"Mmm," she breathed out as they parted, "That's a good, solid opening statement. Got any more?"


	17. Chapter 17

**11:44am, March 10; The Iceburg Lounge; Oswald Cobblepot**

Ed was a blur of energy as he barreled up the stairs, already talking long before he got within earshot, starting in right as his eyes settled on Oswald. He moved with long, purposeful strides towards him, then stopped and began pacing, before coming back and standing an arms length away. His words becoming understandable in the last few sentences:

"-and while I think there might have been an overstatement of my own enthusiasm for the sport, I certainly find the mechanics and innovation the travel industries come up with to be fascinating and I do have an interest in keeping up with those technical ends. So in that manner, choosing a trade show was definitely the better call and what I'm trying to say is," Ed took a deep breath and forced himself to slow down, grinning ear to ear as he met his eyes, "Thank you, Oswald. I had an amazing time.

"Wren and Rockhopper, they said you thought I might be over-stressing between work and the move and that i could use the break. And you were absolutely right. I did need it." He dropped his gaze, his grin splitting his face, "And you picked... It was a perfect choice to get my mind off of things and even... give me a new perspective on others."

He adjusted his glasses, then held up something he'd brought, that Oswald hadn't noticed in all the hurry, "This is for you. I wanted to show my thanks for the gift with a gift of my own. It's really not nearly equal to what you managed to do in just a couple short days. But you seemed really interested in it when we were talking... and with the downsizing I'm having to do right now, I exactly don't have the space for my record player at the moment."

Ed held his arms out so the album cover was visible, "I know you said you weren't bothered by the B-Side being damaged, so I hope that... wasn't just you being polite."

"Oh... Ed," Oswald breathed out, barely audible as he reached forward to touch the edges of the album with reverence. "This is..." He gave a soft, breathy chuckle and pretenses he usually maintained dropped away. He was, for the moment, as easy to read as a book. His expression open, relaxed... giddy with surprise. Overwhelmed entirely. "This is... you really didn't have to." The way his fingers caressed the cover, as if it would fall to dust should his hands be more than feather-light upon it said otherwise. Ed couldn't know what the record meant to the other man. Oswald had been careful not to make a big deal out of it when they were talking, though he had shown more than a passing interest in it. One collector to another sort of thing.

"I insist," he answered, his voice softer now. "Please. I want you to have it."

Oswald took a long time to finally let his fingers close around it and take it from Ed's grasp. He kept shaking his head, opening his mouth as if to say something and stopping, like the words were stuck. They were. Just a bit. He felt like he was choking on them, grasping for breath, but breathing more deeply than he had in a long time. As though a weight had been tied around his heart, pulling him down. And now it was gone. The lock that held it in place broken open by a simple gesture.

He'd been thinking, until then, that perhaps Edward's attempts to befriend him had been more calculated than first estimated. Everything they spoke about as he went over his mental notes seemed to be perfectly selected to keep his interest or amuse him in some way. An intellectual equal with just enough of an interest in things society at large would find intolerable.

But this. There was no way he could have pre-meditated it. No way he could have known to choose this particular album. No one knew what that song meant to him. Or how deeply it would strike his heart to be able to play it at his leisure. Ed hadn't even brought it over that night when they'd listened to a few of the other, even rarer albums in his collection. Sure, he'd mentioned how he wouldn't care about the the B-side damage, the same as Ed hadn't cared enough not to get it. But he couldn't have _known_.

"I... thank you, Edward," he eventually managed, looking up at him. Exposing the tears glistening at the corners of his eyes and not caring at all that they were seen. Not by the man in front of him. "Do you... would you like to listen to it? With me?"

The answer spilled out of Ed without hesitation, "I'd love to."

**1:23pm. March 10; The Iceburg Lounge; Edward Nygma**

He couldn't help but feel a little bit guilty as they listened to the single in Oswald's office. Each time the song ended, the man would take some time to control his breathing, then stand up and slowly move across the room to reset it. Shutting his eyes as the notes began again. Smiling and wiping tears from the corners of his eyes as went back to sit down. Then lean his chin on one hand and hum along to it softly.

Clearly, Oswald appreciated the gift. Far, far more than anticipated. And Ed felt guilty, because he'd picked the record out as the one to give him because it was the most damaged in his collection. He figured that as a collector and connoisseur of music, or at least someone who'd expressed an interest in his own collection, that one of the records in it would be a decent way of thanking the man for his day out with Diedre and Nina. And Ed would, personally, feel the least put out by giving up one that was damaged.

But this was... he was seeing a side of Oswald that he was certain no one else had gotten to see in a very long time. He was... soft. Human. Unguarded.

"My mother used to sing this to me at bed time," Oswald murmured, a good twelve repeats and two brandies in. His expression was that dreamy sort of nostalgia that came when remembering loved ones. "She'd tell me 'Oswald, don't listen to the other children. You're handsome... and clever... and someday you'll be a great man.'"

He brushed some tears to the side, going quiet.

Ed waited a few moments, to see if he'd continue. When he didn't, Ed spoke up, gentle, "And you have. So she was right."

Oswald laughed, a short burst with further tears he fought to keep from overwhelming him. He nodded, however, "I have. I just wish she were here to see it. I miss her so much, Ed. And I can't talk about it. It'll be seen as a weakness. And... it is. My heart has always been my weakness. If she were still here, she could be used against me, to control me..."

He said it like it was a given, almost like-

"Someone did that to you?"

Oswald's next laugh was bitter and he pressed his fist to his mouth, squeezed his eyes shut, "I think it's time you left, friend."

Ed stood, but didn't go to the door. He approached the desk, coming around the side of it. Then he sat on it's edge and reached out for Oswald's face. His fingers hovered just over his cheek before settling on his fist. He startled the man, but Oswald recovered quickly, looking up at him with wild and suddenly very dangerous eyes. Ed didn't move, but he did let his eyes drop.

Ed took a deep breath and rubbed his thumb over Oswald's knuckles, "I... I've had..." He gulped and forced himself to continue speaking, "I've had my heart used against me, too. Some people I thought were my friends... I don't have family or many people in my life, so when... when they said they were my friends, I took it as truth. And they repaid my trust by destroying everything. I want to..."

He took a deep breath and dropped his hand to his lap, looked away, toward the glazed window that let light in but hid all that happened in that room, "You're one of the first people I can think of as a real friend, Oswald. Wren and Rockhopper, too, but... they're only my friends because of you. They wouldn't have chosen to spend time with me like that, to get to know me, if you hadn't asked one of them to. So, you're really the first friend I've had in a long time that... I know you don't trust me. Your position doesn't let you. And that's... that's okay. You haven't lied to me about that, or led me on. You haven't let me think that I'm more to you than just... whatever interest I am to you. I still haven't figured that out. I'd like to, but... Maybe it's better if I don't."

Ed stood, walking away toward the door. He turned to face Oswald, hands folded in front of him, "I'm glad you like the record."

The emotional mask had returned to Oswald's face and he said nothing more as Ed took hold of the door handle and let himself out. He had hoped for something in response to that small barring of his soul. It had been difficult to admit aloud. But he supposed he should have known better. Small glimpses into the heart of the King of Gotham were all he was going to be allowed. All he could be, for the man to maintain his position.

Ed counted himself lucky to have gotten what he had so far. And unlike with Flass, he felt like he hadn't misjudged Oswald.

**3:00pm, March 10; The Iceburg Lounge; Oswald Cobblepot**

He held everything in long after Ed had left and long after the record had stopped. He understood, based on how much Ed tried to keep a happy face around him, that what he'd said had been a show of trust. But he hated seeming vulnerable in front of others and he'd exposed himself far too much because of the record. More than just what he'd shared about his mother. He'd... he'd trusted Edward.

And in letting him leave without threat of harm, he'd further shown trust that it wouldn't be shared.

He knew, on a basic level, he should nip whatever this was in the bud. Cut it out of his life. Be done with all the nonsense.

But he liked Ed. He liked having the illusion of a friend. He didn't have any, except Butch. And Butch wasn't someone he could confide in. Not in that way.

It was getting too personal. He still needed to have Nygma close, in case he was a plant or being used. So they could follow the lines back eventually, or even torture the man if needed. But Oswald had to step away from it. His heart was too confused and that could lead to poor decisions. He would need someone else to handle things with Edward when he was around. Help keep him at arms length without it looking like he was pushing him away.

Oswald took some time to get himself back under control and left his office. He sought out Mr. Penn and pulled him to the side, "Please inform Mr. Wesker that should Mr. Nygma request anything, I am leaving it up to him to determine if it is reasonable or not. And inform him, also, that he is to have access to the Lounge's discretionary funds to facilitate said requests."

"Of course, Mr. Cobblepot," Mr. Penn answered, making an immediate note. "And which discretionary fund should he have access to? The thousand dollar incidental?"

"The half million for overnight renovations and repairs."

Penn glanced up at him, blinked a couple times, then made another hasty note in his book, "Yes, sir. I'll have a new card issued right away."


End file.
